This Should Be Interesting
by Monsieur Prongs
Summary: A series of drabbles either before or after Sherlock and John have met. Sometimes in Sherlock's view, other times in John's and still others third person. Tell me what you think.
1. Experimentation

_Sherlock_

I took another rattling breath before leaning over the toilet bowl, again. More acidic stomach fluids forced themselves up my throat and out of my mouth, leaving a sour taste. This was the fifth time in only a minute. My body heaved again, trying to expel any nonexistent fluid. I collapsed, exhausted, onto the cold tile floor, body quivering slightly. My abdomen was sore and my throat burned. Shakily I reached for the sink, only to run out of energy before I was halfway up. I slumped to the floor again breathing heavily. I shivered on the cool white tiles and curled up into a ball. Hopefully John would find me soon, and find some way to make this all go away. He was a doctor after all he had to have something. I knew that dabbling in those drugs had been a bad idea, but I had to know what it was like, how it would feel to mix them. Inwardly I moaned, hoping that I wouldn't die before John could come back from Sarah's. I looked up at the early morning light that peeped through the gently wafting curtains and cursed silently. When I had recovered enough energy I stood and peered at my reflection in the mirror. I studied my pale face, taking in every detail, noticing the sweat that dampened my curly dark hair. I ran a glass under the tap. I pressed the glass to my forehead before looking at myself again. I never got to drink the water and get rid of the horrible taste that lingered before the world started tilting dangerously. The glass fell from my hand as I tried to remain upright by gripping the polished granite sink. Faintly I heard the creak of the door as it opened, and the slam that quickly followed after it shut, and I managed a loud croak of fear as it closed in on my heart. 'Bad bad idea Sherlock. Never again.' I counseled my self before falling to the floor. I hit my head hard on the bathtub and my eyesight started to fade. John entered looking scared. I allowed my face to twist into a sly smile before sub-coming to the darkness.

_John_

"Oh bloody Hell," I cursed quietly, gazing down at the smugly smiling Sherlock. You know, when he's not being a prat he isn't so bad. "What have you gotten yourself into now?" I squatted down to look at his face, trying to determine what he had done. Something not good apparently. Then I saw that his left sleeve was rolled up and a small puncture wound on his arm. Of course. The tiny glass syringe had rolled under the bathroom cabinet and it was empty. "Bugger. Of course you would. You! Of all people!" He had looked fine only a few hours ago, he had told me that it was ok if I went out with Sarah, he said he had other plans. With a loud sigh I gathered his slight form in my arms and took him to his room. I stretched him out and pulled the untidy blankets over him. After taking his temperature I got a glass of water and set it on the bedside table. He was going to need it. I rolled the syringe between my fingers, supervising Sherlock as he slept.

_Sherlock_

My head was pounding so hard I couldn't think straight. It took an enormous effort to try an open my eyes, and immediately I regretted the decision to try. Light flooded my eyes and caused a sharp pain between the eyelids. It took a moment to recall everything that had happened and when my vision adjusted I was pleasantly surprised to end up in my room. John was here. I could hear the steady, even breaths of an army man dozing, and his chair creaked noisily. I started to sit up, but thought better of it when my sides ached and my vision started to go again. My head hit my pillow with a soft thud and I sighed again, this time in aggravation. My mouth was so parched I am sure that you could use it for sandpaper. I found it funny that I hadn't noticed it before. It burned and I wanted water desperately. John stirred slightly in his chair and mumbled a little bit, adjusting his position, distracting me from my thoughts of 'woe is me'. This moment was crucial. The point where the human body wakes, just slightly, shifting in the sleep. I tried to shout out, rouse him further, but my words made no sense and came out as raspy and broken sounds. At least it was enough. John woke up, jumping slightly and looking around, on red alert. 'Poor soldier.' I thought with a smile. His eyes caught on me and his face fell into a look of displeasure,"YOU BLOODY IDIOT! What the HELL is wrong with you? Meth and cocaine? TOGETHER? You're lucky you didn't kill yourself! Do you know how stupid that was?" His voice softened slightly as he continued, "Of course you did. That's why you did it. Of course." I looked reproachful as if trying to make him understand how thirsty I really was. A dance of light caught the corner of my eye and I spotted a glass of water on my bedside table. I eyed it longingly. John followed my gaze and sighed heavily. Tipping the glass to my cracked lips he shook his head, although I could tell he was slightly amused by my experiment. The water moisturized my dry mouth and throat, flooding my body with a sense of rejuvenation and I held back a sigh of relief. He set the glass down and looked at me again,

"Why? Why me? Why in the whole bloody Earth did you choose me to look after you? Don't you have other friends? Your brother?" he asked exasperatedly. I looked at him for a moment,

"You're all I've got."


	2. Fragile

I took another whack at the corpse, hearing the whistle of the riding crop and the resounding thump as it hit the body. I could feel Molly's eyes on the back of my head, and almost feel her startled jump every time as I brought another smack down. I turned swiftly on my heel, riding crop quivering slightly, I could tell she was slightly scared of me. I studied her face no longer than a second, ever detail leaping out at me. I sniffed slightly,

"New perfume Molly?" she smiled and nodded eagerly, waiting for my praise, "I liked the other one better. This one is..." I paused, searching for a word, "Too much now." Her smile faltered and her face fell.

"Oh." I turned toward the morgue door to leave, but something stopped me. Molly. She seemed saddened. I swear I even heard a sniffle. I turned slowly to see her tear stained face and was met with strangled sobs.

"Molly?" I asked quietly, confused as to why she was crying so hard, or why she was crying at all. Instead of answering my question, like a reasonable person, she threw her arms around me and continued to sob. "Molly? Can you... Stop doing that?" That was a mistake. She only cried harder. Now I was annoyed, I've never dissolved into a sniffling mess of tears and snot before. 'She's such a girl' passed through my head several times before her sobbing finally subsided. "Molly? Can I... Leave now?" She looked up at me with red rimmed eyes,

"Yeah. I suppose." she unlocked her arms and I left.

That night I couldn't sleep. Molly's random outburst of emotion had thoroughly shaken me. In that moment I realized how fragile human beings actually are. You have to be careful, or you could burn them.


	3. Alone

_Sherlock Holmes age Twenty Two_

Cool beads of sweat drip off my burning skin. I wish my shaking would stop. Want. Need. These emotions course through my veins and plague my soul. I want to scream, loud and long. A few tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. Try to get clean. That is the goal, and I'm breaking. Mycroft had come in and taken my stash. He locked me up, saying that instead of the stimulants I normally use, that I should use nicotine patches. He said that the drugs were ruining my life. I let out a breath that I had been holding, hoping that the wails of longing don't slip out with it, sucking in more air before the pathetic wails can escape. I screw my face up in pain as I rock back and forth on my bed, curl into a ball, and lie there, looking at the ceiling. My breath is ragged and I feel like as if I am dying. It shouldn't be this hard, not really. Thirty more minutes and I will be twenty four hours clean. My resolve to break this coil that has tangled itself around my life is starting to wear off and falter as each minute ticks by. Mycroft cracks open my door, and the light from the hall floods my room,

"Sherlock?" A dozen insults and curses fill my mouth, wanting to be let loose on my treacherous brother, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper. I have done it, I'm twenty four hours clean. My body is so weak that I can't push my idiotic brother off my bed, nor can I force his hands away as he tips a glass of water down my throat. I can't swallow, and I start to choke. It's as if he is trying to kill me with kindness, if you can call it that. He pulls the glass away as my body tries to force the fluid out of my throat, then he looks down on me sympathetically,

"Feeling better?

"No." I manage to croak and throw myself out of his arms with every bit of energy I can muster, which isn't much. I flop back onto my bed, burying my head into my pillows, willing him to leave me alone. I feel the bed ease up as he gets off and listen as the floor boards creak under his weight. Light floods my room again,

"I'm sorry."

"No you aren't." The door shuts, and my room is darkened again. He, of course, won't admit he really isn't sorry. He just wants me to get clean. I'm alone again. I shiver. All alone. Alone.


	4. A Shot in the Dark

_Sherlock age: 21_

Sherlock ran down the hall at top speed, looking over his shoulder, swearing.

"Sherlock, that was a bad idea, a really bad idea. Don't you ever mess with the under lords of the city, just don't. Now you've gotten yourself killed. Smooth. Real smooth. Bugger." He tried a door, turning the handle this way and that. Locked. Of course. He rammed the wood with his shoulder, and the door opened. "Shit shit shit. Not good. Not good at all." He closed the door with a snap, turning the lock. Turning he looked around the darkened room, just making out the shapes of school desks and chairs. "Shit." He ducked behind a desk as something banged against the door.

"Mr. Holmes. I know you're in there, you can't just hide, you have to face this like a man. Unearthing secrets of the under lords that do not concern you is a serious crime. And now you have to pay for it." An accented voice called from the other side of the door as more banging continued.

Sherlock whispered more profanities. He stealthily positioned himself to where he had an advantage. The door burst open and a large man waltzed in, gun poised, searching the room. Rolling on the floor, Sherlock leaped up in the hallway and took off down the hall, hardly making a noise. The man heard him none the less and followed after him, with the occasional gunshot down the hall.

"Shit." There was a dead end, the hallway ended. The white tile blocked all ways out. He turned, coat tails twirling, to face his assassin, arms raised. "Look, I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to expose you, or to put your boss in jail. I'm just a guy who... makes a living. You wouldn't really shoot me would you? Stupid question, course you would kill me." he sighed and looked the dark skinned man in the eyes, "Just make it quick okay?" The man laughed and raised the gun,

"If you say so Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock. My name is Sherlock." he closed his eyes and braced for impact. A shot rang out and a splash of blood. Sherlock sank to the floor, his life force bleeding out. He groaned in pain. He wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die. At least not until he reached the hospital, till he told the cops what he knew. He looked up, and the man was gone. "Shit." He side hurt so bad, he felt like he was dying as he dragged himself down the hall, trying to pull his phone out of his jacked pocket. Blood soaked the side of his coat as he propped himself up against the wall, shouting out in pain. He dialed the number,

"Yeah, I need an ambulance. On the double. No, I'm bleeding to death right now. Been shot. My location? Honestly? Can't you trace the call? No, I don't know my exact location. I was chased and then shot at you imbecile. Well of course I'm irritable, I've been shot!" he shifted a little, sending another ripple of pain through his body, and he screamed again, "Oh bloody Hell. Forget it, let me die." He flung his phone against the wall. It would only be a matter of minutes now. That assassin was a lousy shot, either that or he knew that it would be more painful to to die like this, alone, in a school, and bleeding. His vision started going black at the edges, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his head. "Shit." he muttered one last time before allowing the darkness to take him away from the pain, just as sirens started getting nearer.

Sherlock tasted blood as he rose, like someone emerging from a deep sleep, or from the bottom of a pool. His eyelids felt heavy as he tried to lift them, trying to observe like usual. Scents bombarded his nose, anesthetics, air freshener, and other sterile smells burned his nostrils. So, hospital then. White blinded his eyes as they opened for the first time in several hours, which finally faded until only the walls were white. The sound of a clock was distantly heard, overlapped by the sound of tapping. He turned his head and then immediately wished he hadn't.

"Mycroft. What the Hell could you possibly want?"

"Is it so wrong to want to see my younger brother, hoping he hasn't managed to get himself killed?"

"Yes." He looked back up at the ceiling, brooding, wishing that if he ignored his brother, that he might actually leave. "So what is it that you really want?"

"Why did you get yourself shot at Sherlock. And don't bother lying to me, I can always tell when you're lying." Sherlock sighed, and then wished he hadn't. His ribs hurt when he breathed to deep.

"I stuck my nose into something I shouldn't have. Happy? Now you can poke fun of me and use this event to your advantage and my expense."

"Do you want me to clear it up for you?"

"Like you could do anything. And I don't need your help." Mycroft looked at Sherlock meaningfully,

"Don't need my help? You can't even get out of this bed without help."

"Then I'll stay here until I can. Until then you can leave me alone."

"Sherlock. You are arrogant and totally ignorant. When will you finally admit you need your family?" Sherlock looked at him for a moment,

"Mycroft. Never. At least not until they admit they need me. Which will be never. I can do things myself. I'm fine. I don't need anyone."

"Yes you do." Sherlock shook his head in disagreement,

"That will never happen. I can hold my own."


	5. Thoughts of Men

_John's Blog_

Sherlock Holmes is a strange man. It's hard sometimes, living with him. He hardly does anything normal. I swear, today he tried to hang himself, except he wasn't hanging himself. It was like he was trying to find a way that, if he was hanged, he could get out of it. I swear he almost broke his neck. Sometimes I wonder why he isn't in a psych ward at the hospital. He does all these strange experiments that don't make any sense, and when I ask him about them he gives an answer that leaves me more confused then before, and then he insults my intelligence. I put up with a lot, but I guess I consider it more of a odd sort of friendship rather then a duty. I guess that sometimes I am scared because something might happen that puts my life in danger because of him. Should I reach out and make a lasting friendship, or should I leave before I get to used to the idea of having an eccentric friend? I feel like, in an strange sort of way he respects me. I know I must sound mad, I mean this whole blog idea is mad, I never wanted to write about my life because nothing ever really happened until I met Sherlock. Now we split rent and share a flat, having adventures every other day and he insists on me not calling them adventures, not that he'll ever know that I call them adventures. Sometimes I question myself as to why I put up with him, yesterday I found an answer. He needs me. He needs someone to stop him, or to push him to go on. He's like a child in some ways, in others he's more of a sophisticated being. He enjoys feeling like he's better then everyone, just like a child. Although he can really be a handful, it's quite entertaining, even some of the really annoying stuff he does, like leaving all the cupboards open, or leaving little bits and pieces of bodies lying about, he never ceases to amaze me. I feel like I have so much I could learn from him. You probably think I'm mad. Hell, I don't know if anyone is even reading this, but it's a comfort to know that I can share what I feel like deep inside with the rest of the world you know? Because I sure as Hell can't share it with Sherlock. He would mock me or something, considering he thinks himself to be above human feeling, which I don't think is true. During the case that I entitled the Blind Banker he showed some concern for Sarah. He attempted to untie her before the bolt got fired, before going after the ring leader. I recall her telling me that he looked her in the eye with a look of concern, and told her that "Everything is going to be fine, it's over now," or something along those lines. Could it be that Sherlock actually has a heart, one buried deep inside him? Could something have happened in the past that has made him seem so cold and heartless on the outside? Sometimes I wonder about Sherlock's past. He never really talks about his family, or anything like that. He certainly is an interesting character, maybe that is why I decided to make myself at home in 221B Baker Street. Something about his character is just so intriguing. Sharing a flat with him has opened my eyes, and I think it has sharpened my deductive skills, at least that is what he told me. I now view the world in a larger perspective than before, which I find fascinating. So many things have happened since the war that I'm beginning to think I have more fun here than back there, in that world of shrapnel and blood.

Why did I become a doctor? I don't really understand myself sometimes. Sherlock says it's because I like risks. Apparently, to him, being a doctor means that you take risks every time you see a patient, you take risks when you are operating on them, or when it's too late to operate on them. I take no pleasure in seeing blood, but maybe the idea that I hold this person's life in my hands is what causes me to do it, be a doctor I mean. Right, I've had my fun. Plus Sherlock's going to be home soon, don't want to be ridiculed to badly now do we? That's all I have to say right now on that. Until next time?

_Sherlock's Journal_

I don't know why I keep one of these things. I don't really need it. Maybe it's just so that I don't bottle up my feelings like I did as a teenager. Lord knows nothing good ever came from that. Sharing a flat is interesting. John Watson is a strange character. He seems drawn to the danger that drives my life. I don't quite know if that's a good thing. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Can I just say it's good not to be alone anymore? I look back at my lonely life and realize that some of the things that happened might have been prevented if I had someone, maybe not though. The way I see it, life is just a blip, just a little blip and it doesn't matter what we do with our lives, we never make that big of an impact on the Earth, let alone the Universe. But I guess that one could try right.

Why do I write these things? No one will read them, not even myself, I simply refuse to look over anything I have previously written. No one wants to know what I think, I don't want anyone to have my views of the world forced upon them, especially since they won't make sense to people who aren't on the same brain wave length frequency as me. Maybe I should get a shrink. No, bad idea, you would be a shrink to the shrink, and shrinks aren't ever any good. Mycroft sent me to a shrink once. It was horrible. The stupid man kept wanting me to talk about myself, as if. I don't talk about myself, I observe others, it's what I was trained to do. According to John I don't even listen to "normal people" music.

Again I ask myself, WHY DO YOU WRITE THESE THINGS? And to answer that question truthfully, I don't even really know. I'm compelled to get my thoughts down on paper? Is that it? I don't understand myself sometimes. Sometimes I think I feel to much. With that Sarah girl in the tramway, that was feeling too much. I don't even know the girl, yet I felt like she should be saved. I'm pretty sure that if anything happened to John I wouldn't be quite so "cold" as he calls it. He's my best, my only, friend. Who else could I trust in the world? Not many people, but John accepts me, that I can deal with. I think that John actually cares about me, which is odd. No one ever has worried about me before, except Mycroft, or maybe mummy, but I don't count family. Maybe I take things for granted sometimes, too often maybe. Should I just sit back and watch our friendship blossom, or sever all ties before something horrid happens, which usually happens. Ah well. How about I let John decide. I think he is scared of me sometimes, which, I can't blame him for, sometimes I scare myself. I almost broke my neck today, if John hadn't stopped me, I wouldn't be writing this right now.

Now that is an interesting thought. And I shall close on that tonight. Adieu, hopefully I won't come back to this retched thing, I hate feeling like I have to write in this journal.


	6. A Rest

_John_

I tramp up the stair of our flat after the shopping that I have conducted. Sherlock was being a git just a few hours ago. I stop to listen outside the door. No noises, not obscene sounds or things to cause me to be concerned for Sherlock's health and safety. Good. I let loose a sigh of relief, I shouldn't worry. Hopefully nothing bad has happened to him, or maybe he has finally found something to entertain him, he's been moping the past couple days about having nothing to do. I shift the grocery bag in my arms, searching for my keys in my pocket. I shove the key into the lock and give it a twist, opening the door with a shove from my shoulder. The sight that awaits me makes my jaw drop. My bags nearly tumble from my grasp as I stare. Sherlock. He's asleep. On the couch. How is this possible? Sherlock never sleeps. Or eats for that matter. I make room on the table for the groceries and set them down before staring at him again. His violin rests on his chest, moving only as he breaths. His bow is on the floor next to him. From what I can piece together, Sherlock fell asleep while playing, thinking of something to do. I guess everyone needs a rest. Sherlock stirs on the couch, clutching the violin closer to his chest.

"John, go away, I need a rest. That's all I need. I haven't been myself for the past couple of days, I'm sick. Yes John, I get sick. No, I don't want a cup of tea, just leave me alone." Sherlock mumbles quietly as he shifts some more. Interesting. It's like he is reading my thoughts, while he's sleeping. I start to put the groceries away, trying to make as little noise as possible. Sherlock needs his sleep, wherever he can get it. Sherlock stirs again as I start to close the door before going upstairs to my room,

"John! No, don't touch that, it doesn't concern you, no, you can't have- stop it! I mean it! Stop it! I don't have to let you stay here! You could be all on your own. You're my best mate! You can't just mess with my stuff without even asking. That isn't right. No it's not." I pause with the door half closed, deciding against my better judgment to go and wake Sherlock. Troubled dreams aren't good for sleeping, I would know.

"Sherlock, Sherlock wake up!" I shake his shoulder gently, trying to wake him up. Sherlock's eyes fly open and his arm flies up and whacks me in the face, sending a wave of pain through my nose. I stumble backward swearing. "Sherlock, what the Hell is wrong with you?" I stare at him, appalled that he would hit me. Recognition registers on his face,

"John! Bloody Hell! I didn't know that it was you! Are you okay?"

"No Sherlock, no I'm not. You hit me in the face, made my nose bleed."

"You're fine."

"Maybe physically, but mentally no. Why did you hit me?"

"You startled me. That is what you did. Don't ever do that again."

"Fine." We are silent for a moment while I collect my thoughts, "You were sleeping."

"Yes I was." I look at him in the eye.

"You never sleep." Sherlock looks at me for a moment in admiration,

"John, you of all people should know that everyone needs a rest."

"But you're Sherlock Holmes, the man who doesn't eat or sleep, doesn't rest. The man whose brain rots when he's bored, you never do anything mundane." Sherlock sighs,

"John, everyone needs to have some sort of rest, some way to refuel their energy. I even have to force myself to eat. You've lived here what, three weeks, and you still haven't noticed the little mundane things I do. You really are an idiot."


	7. Family Ties

_Mycroft Age: 23_

Sherlock is in trouble, again. There is something wrong with that boy. I comb the warehouse's darkened room with my eyes, squinting in the half light. He has to be here somewhere, poor bloke. He really shouldn't mess with the gang bangers, they show no mercy, not ever. I tentatively cry out,

"Sherlock?" No answer. There is a shuffle of someone moving in the corner of the room, my eyes are instantly drawn to the spot. Someone is lying on the floor. I curse silently, hoping that it isn't my younger brother, but knowing that it is going to be him. I run over quietly, trying not to make much noise, "Sherlock I got your message, please tell me you didn't get beat up to bad." No such luck. Sherlock's pale face is streaked with his own blood, his right eye is already swelling, his nose is gushing blood and his lip is split. He has a long cut on the side of his arm which looks angry and red and his shirt's buttons are gone, leaving it open to show off the bruises of several cracked ribs and a huge bruise on his side. "Shit Sherlock, not good. What have I told you about the gangsters? To stay away. Now look at what you've done. You can't go home tonight, mother will have fit, you'll have to stay at my place."

"Bugger off." The first words my brother has spoken to me in a few weeks. They were spat out with effort and ended up cracked and sort of flat. I look at my bloodied younger brother sadly,

"Sorry Sherlock, you can't even stand, no, I'm going to have to take care of this. You really need to get a grip of yourself. You're tearing your life to shreds. How many universities have you been kicked out of? To many, and now this? Come on," I bend down and drape his good arm over my shoulders to help him stand. He resists, which isn't a surprise to me.

"Push off Mycroft, I mean it."

"Sherlock, did you or did you not text me this morning?" Sherlock is quiet for a moment,

"I did."

"Yes you did. You asked for help, and help has come. Whether you want it to or not actually so you man up and let me help you, or I can leave you hear to take another beating in the morning, one which you probably won't live through. What do you say? I'm trying to help you here Sherlock." He looks at me a moment, with a look that is only describable as wonder.

"You really do care don't you?" I only nod, and help him up again, this time he doesn't fight me.

"Easy does it, you'll be better soon."

"Quit acting like you saved me Mycroft, I don't need it. Not tonight. Better text mum that I'm with you, she'll worry." I look at him a moment as we enter the cold night air, he doesn't even shiver,

"You say you don't feel, you don't care, but you do. You care about mum, you care about certain people, even if you don't care about me. I don' t mind that you don't care about me." I pause for a moment and take my coat off to drape it over Sherlock's bruised and bare shoulders. He shudders,

"Thank you Mycroft. For coming to find me. I can always count on you. You are possibly one of the only people in the world that are actually trust worthy. Thanks for that." I look at him again as we trek down the street,

"Sherlock, we're tied together as family. You're my brother, I feel responsible for you because of that fact, and yes, I will be here for you. Always. All you have to do is ask." He smiles weakly before we reach my flat door. I put him in my bed with a glass of water and an aspirin, telling him to get some sleep and we'll see what I can do about those battle wounds in the morning. He chuckles a little bit and before to long is fast asleep. I sit next to him and study his face as he sleeps. When Sherlock sleeps he gets a sort of peaceful look on his face, untroubled and care free. Maybe sleep is a better place for him, he can't get himself into trouble or over think anything, he sleeps and dreams and that is all, that is perfect for him. I sigh and go about my business for the night, filing papers and collecting my thoughts. Sherlock needs me right now, the only time I ever get any form of affection from him is when I am helping him out of a scrape, but I don't mind, it isn't so bad. We're family, and that is what matters right now. Keeping the family tied together.


	8. Sweet Dreams

_Sherlock Age: 23_

_I sit duct taped to a wicker chair, and fear engulfs me, sweeping over my body. The side of my head throbs, and my hair is caked with dried blood. Something is wrong. I don't know why I am here, I don't know anything about where I am or why. The room is plain, and completely empty except for me. I can't think straight, my brain is fuzzy and unfocused. The door opens and a man comes in. He is dressed in black, I can't see his face. He demands for information that I can't release. He wants it so bad that I can feel it radiating off his body. I can't tell him the information, it's important that no one knows it. The first blow comes as a surprise and the right side of my face was on fire for a moment. My lip was slit, and a bruise was starting to form. I said nothing as the blows rained down on my body, cracking my ribs, dislocating my shoulder. The chair falls to the floor, smashing my legs to the hard surface. I want to scream, but I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. He rights my chair and leaves, only to come back with a pair of pliers. He starts with my thumb nail, ripping out with one jerk. He won't stop till I tell him, but I can't tell him. He finishes that hand and moves to the other, working efficiently at pulling my nails out. I still say nothing. Hardly a grunt escapes my lips. It's so hard, so so hard to not scream, not cry out in pain. He brings up a syringe, filled with liquid, I can see he has loads of them. He sticks it in my arm and pushes the liquid into my blood stream. He has a blue one, and a red one, and a sort of orange one. All go into my arm. And they hurt. And I see things, and they hurt and they make me sad and feel horrible, and I feel like no one will ever find me, I have no hope. More concoctions, more pain and hurt. I say nothing. He leaves again and I sigh in relief, hoping that he won't come back and that someone, anyone would find me, but it's hardly the end. More pain and suffering to come, loads more. I feel like it will never end. He has a hammer now. Oh God. He knows how to use it. He knows how to make it hurt. My ribs crack and I can't help it, I cry out. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. The pain is so intense, so focused. I feel my shoulder blade shatter and I scream again. Oh God, make it stop, make it stop. He wants me to talk. I can't talk, there is no way I can give up the information. My nose gets broken and I can hardly breathe now. I'm dying, I know I'm dying. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. Oh God. He's going to kill me for it, and even if I give it to him, he's going to kill me. I need someone, right now, some miracle maker to save me, get me away. My knee cap explodes under the hammer's head. He asks again for the information, but I can't give it, I could never give it. He shoves a dirty rag in my mouth. I can't move. He unties me and lays me out on the floor, securing my hands and feet. He puts a bag over my head and starts pouring water on my face. Oh God. I'm drowning, drowning, and no one can save me. I can't speak, I can't scream, I can't do anything. I can't see, or hear anymore. Is this death? Am I dead? I can't feel pain. I'm happy. Am I dead?_

I wake with a start, throwing my sweat drenched bed clothes off to the side. Breathing heavily I check my body, I'm all fixed, not broken, not bleeding, not in any way harmed. Why do I keep having this dream? Always the same one. I don't know anything I shouldn't, I am not being chased, I'm safe. I take several deep breaths, this isn't good. Not good at all. I have never been tortured before. Why am I so scared of it. Or is it death? How can I imagine the pain so well that it wakes me? I feel like I was there, I was in that chair, being tortured by that man.

"Mycroft?" I call out tentatively, he's always near by, always looking out for me. He can help me. He always helps. I hate to admit it, but I need him now. Right now. "Mycroft!" I call again, my voice shaking, I don't want to be alone, not now, not now, not after... My door opens and my brother comes into the room,

"Sherlock."

"Please don't say anything, please don't."

"I heard you crying out, screaming actually. Is it that dream again?"

"Mycroft, I said don't." He studies my face a moment,

"Are those tears?" Furiously I wipe my face,

"Mycroft, I need your help. Please, just, don't tell anyone. Please." He hands me the glass he had in his hand,

"Thought you might be needing this." He hands me a pill, well half a pill, "And this. It's a sleeping pill. You'll be able to get through this Sherlock. You will. You just have to put your mind to it." We are quiet for a moment, "What are your dreams about? What are they like?"

"Mycroft, I don't want to talk about it. I just escaped from that," I shudder, "Hell hole, I don't want to go back. Not ever." He gives me a look,

"It might help if you told someone, it might make things easier." I gulp the pill down, chasing it with a swig of water,

"No. It's not a good idea."

"Sherlock, I'm here for you, I'm always here for you. You need to talk about this, get it out of your system." I ponder for a moment, it makes sense, maybe it will help. I sit up,

"Okay. I'll tell you."

"Thank you Sherlock." I take a deep breath,

"I'm tied to a chair, a man comes in and beats me up, injecting me with things, things that I don't know what they are. He wants me to talk, but I can't, I can't betray wherever I got the information. He pulls my fingernails out, and then he smashes me with a hammer, smashing my shoulder blades and knee caps, hurting me. I can't move any more and then he tapes me to the floor, putting a bag over my head, he starts to pour water over my face, and then I'm drowning, not able to escape..." My voice trails off, and I look down. I feel an arm on my shoulder and look at Mycroft, he has tears in his eyes,

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I look away,

"And then I die."

"Sherlock..." I hear Mycroft's voice but I don't know what he's saying, my eyelids are drooping and I'm falling asleep, feeling the drugs take me down into the sweet abyss of a dreamless sleep.

_Mycroft_

I lay my brother down in his bed, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. Taking the glass, I kiss him on the forehead before leaving.

"Sweet dreams Sherlock."


	9. Rain

_Sherlock Age: 16_

Rain plasters my hair to my face, the water drops cooling my face. I lay back on the driveway, stretching out, letting my body feel the sort of rhythm that the rain drops have as they land on the parched land. Rain, beautiful. I close my eyes and feel the drops as they land. It is so beautiful. My clothes are soaked through to the bone. I stretch a little bit to get more comfortable. This is how life is supposed to be. Rain filled and carefree. When I lay out in the rain, my bruises don't hurt as bad, my parent's fighting doesn't reach my ears anymore. The screen door bangs open. I pretend not to hear. I'm enjoying my time in the driveway, where I can think and feel and be free. Footsteps. Coming closer and closer and closer. A shadow falls over me, I can see it through my eyelids. Mummy. I shift once more, feeling the rain. It's so pretty. So pretty.

"Sherlock?" I don't say anything. Her voice is cracked and weary sounding. Another fight with father I presume. One, thankfully, I missed. "Sherlock. I want to talk to you." Again I say nothing, I don't want to talk, not about her and dad fighting. I can see it coming to an end, the happy family that I once knew is being left behind, and in it's place a broken fence and brunt trees will be all that remains. "Sherlock I know you can here me. You're going to get sick." Still nothing. I'm not talking, not talking to her ever again. I try to convince myself that talking will do no harm, but it will. It always does. I sense her sit down next to me, "Since you won't talk to me, can I just tell you things? Will you listen to me?" I say nothing, but nod slightly, regretting it almost as soon as I did. She sighs, relieved that I, her son, would listen to her pathetic excuses as to why mummy and daddy were fighting.

"Oh Sherlock, it's all ending you know. That one thing that I married your father for, a family. Love has flown out the window and I'm really sad about it too. I shouldn't be you know, but I am. Mycroft left already and I can tell. You're going to leave too. I know that you packed your bags last night, I heard you. I won't stop you. I promise. I just want you to be happy. Sherlock, I'm leaving him. I'm getting a divorce. When I leave him though, I want to be able to have you. You'll find me right? You'll try to contact me, tell me where you are, if your safe? Sherlock, sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing when I married your father. I know you don't care about any of this, but I feel like you should know, for when you leave. I'm sorry about your father. Sorry about Mycroft leaving you here, not taking you away when he went to university, not staying to support you. I know that you'll never be able to forgive him. But trust him please. He's going to watch over you. I already asked him to, he said he would. Said he would always be there for you, and I trust him on that. Sherlock, I know that even though I asked you, you won't keep in touch. I know you won't, but a mother can dream right? I'm going to miss you. You made my life a laugh, you and your brother both. You will do alright. Don't get too caught up in the world. I feel like I'm saying good bye, and maybe I am. So I'm going to say what I've never said before Sherlock. I love you. You have always been my favorite son. I don't want you to get caught up in bad things, stay close to Mycroft, he'll help you. Good bye my son, I love you. Take care. When you are with Mycroft, just let me know okay? Please. I worry. I will always worry. I am your mother after all." She stops talking stands up. She takes one more look at me before going back into the house.

I sigh, savoring the rain for a few moments more. I make a decision then and there. Getting up I look up at the sky again, the cloud infested sky, converting this memory to heart.

I hate the rain. It will always remind me of this day, the day I leave behind my family before they can leave me behind. I scramble onto the low hanging roof and let myself in through my open window. I take out my rucksack from under my bed and take one last look around my room, the place where I grew up, the place I would never see again. I leave a hand written good-bye note on my pillow before grabbing my coat and leaving. Like a ghost. Mummy and dad never saw me leave. I don't show up for dinner, and mummy knows that I've left, she tries not to cry, I watch her, she does though. Cry I mean. She cries, and for one second, I feel like I should go in and comfort her, but I don't because I know I can't. This is a new chapter in the story of my life. I walk down the street, rain splashing under my feet. Not for one second do I think about what I'm going to do now that I don't have a home. I just walk, and walk, and don't look back. And I hate the rain. I hate the smell of rain, I hate the kiss of rain. I hate everything about rain. I hate the wetness and the dampness it leaves behind. But most of all, I hate the memories rain brings. Rain is like a plague to my heart. I can't watch rain anymore. I can't see it, or have a hint of rain. Rain is like a knife. Tears start to slide down my cheeks, silently and hatefully. They mix with the rain that patters on my face. I think of the time that I liked rain, only a few moments ago. And I walk, and I cry, and I hate. And I hate that I hate. And I hate the rain that soaks my clothes, and seeps through my rucksack, getting into my supplies. I have no where to go, no way to get out of this rain, and this hate. And I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore. My feelings harden and turn to rock. I don't care about anyone. I can't afford it anymore. I make a commitment right now, I will never care about anyone ever again. I hate to care, and I hate to feel, and I hate the rain. I hate the rain, but I hate my tears more.

* * *

_Right, I know you're out there, and I feel the need to reach out. Hello, I am Time Lord Victorious. I know you are reading this and thinking, I hate these little bits, but I feel like I should do this any way considering I haven't yet, and I want to get my other (now complete) Sherlock story, which I thought was totally brilliant. That is just my opinion. I need you to read that (if you want and if you have the time of course) and then participate in my poll based on that specific story. Sadly I don't recieve as many reviews as I would like, but hey, not many people like the way I write. And I'm okay with that. But I would like you're input. It is really helpful in my line of work. So, kindly, tell me what you think so far, and if you have any ideas for future drabbles I might take them. You never know when a good one might come about. You are the eyes and ears of me currently, so please speak up. Right, that is my spiel, so there you have it. In a nutshell, my thoughts and everything so far. Actually, I love this little thing I've come up with. I should do it more often for other things that I am obsessed with, it's quite refreshing. _

_Thank you to you kind readers who stick with me. You all are brilliant. _

_Time Lord Victorious  
_


	10. Clockworks

A Note From The Author: Hi everyone, considering I am having a hard time deciding, I have decided to write this little one-shot _two_ times because I can't decide between first person and third person, and it is literally driving me bonkers. But should you get the time, tell me which one you like better, or perhaps you could riddle me this, which do you prefer to read, first person or third, past tense or present tense? Personally, I like first, you can see the characters better, but I'm rambling, so enjoy, please. And don't forget to review.

Time Lord Victorious

_John_

I pull open the door quietly. Sherlock, beyond a doubt, knew that I had been out, knew that I was with Sarah, but was most likely being polite and not wanting to put me out by pointing out all the numerous things that told him where I was. I step into the room to see him on the couch, surrounded by clocks, and all sorts of clockworks and things that tick. He seems absorbed in the ticking. Every clock and every ticking device ticks at the same time. It is enthralling, sort of hypnotic. The rhythm makes me want to just stand here all day, everyday just to hear the clockworks ticking. I never want it to stop, not ever. It's such a beautiful sound. Sherlock is cross-legged on the couch, an antique looking clock placed the crook formed by his legs. He has a hand on either side of the clock, as if feeling the ticking vibrate the wood. His eyes are closed. Suddenly, as if by some magical hand, the clocks all start to chime at the same time. A variety of sounds mixing together as they struck the hour, six o'clock. All the clockworks go off in their own way, buzzing, chiming, dinging, pinging, playing a melody. It is a chaotic yet somehow beautiful sound. And then it stops, and the ticking continues. It occurs to me that Sherlock must have been sitting like that for hours, waiting for me to come home. I don't know how he knows but he does, he can always find another way to amaze me. He never ceases to find some new way to surprise me. He looks up at me, peace written all over his face,

"Care to join me?"

"How could I refuse?" He clears a space for me on the couch next to him, placing a clock on my lap. He closes his eyes,

"Can you feel it John?"

"Feel what?" He looks slightly offended as he turns back to me,

"The music? The beat? The beauty of the clock? Can you not feel it?" I take a deep breath before placing my hands on the side of the clock. The ticking is relentless, taping right into my soul. That sound that is taken for granted, the passing of time, the form time takes, and I could feel it, the music. It coursed through me like some sort of drug, calming my limbs. My heart beat matched the ticking, we were one, the clock and I.

"Sherlock. It's... beautiful." No response. If anyone walks in, before them would lay a strange scene. Two men, siting side by side with clockworks all around them, holding clocks, closing their eyes, feeling at peace. I don't care that we are vulnerable. I don't care that the night is ticking away. I don't care when my phone buzzes, or when Sherlock gets a call. Neither of us move, we are at peace, feeling the clocks, feeling the rhythm. The clockworks all chime together again, all at once, making a horrendous, but strangely tantalizing noise. Seven o'clock. We spend the night like that, alive. Totally awake, but entranced by the ticking, the never ending ticking. Clockworks. Something beautiful.

_John_

John pushes the door open quietly, hoping, praying that Sherlock has gone to bed. He probably hasn't. Sherlock knows everything about John. He knows that John slipped away to go see Sarah. He was going to be polite. Hopefully he wouldn't point out everything that told him that John had been out. John's jaw dropped. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by clockworks. He had an antique looking clock placed the crook made by his legs. His eyes were closed, he was listening intently to the ticking, hands on either side of the clock. The ticking reaches John's ears, making him pause, it was hypnotic, it made him want to stand there forever and listen. And then all at once the clockworks go off, each making their own declaration of their existence Chiming, dinging, buzzing, pinging, or playing a melody. The sounds all conflicted, clashing together. It was a chaotic, yet beautiful noise. And in a moment, they quieted and resumed their ticking. Only then did Sherlock acknowledge John,

"Care to join me?"

"How could I refuse?" John sat down after Sherlock cleared a space. He put a clock on his lap and closed his eyes.

"Can you feel it John?"

"Feel what?" Sherlock looks offended as he glances over at John before replying,

"The music? The beat? The beauty of the clock? Can you feel it?" John takes a deep breath before placing his hands on the clock's sides. He closes his eyes and tries to be one with the clock. He feels the ticking fuse with this soul, match his heart beat, slow, one two three four, one two three four, one two three four, going on forever. He wants to be one with the clock, forever.

"Sherlock. It's... beautiful." Sherlock doesn't reply, he just sits there, motionless. If anyone were to walk in at that moment they would see two men sitting on the couch surrounded by clockworks, with their eyes closed, feeling a sort of peace. John didn't care that they were more vulnerable that way, he didn't care when Sherlock got a call, or when his own phone buzzed. He didn't care that time was ticking away, his life force slowly, slowly being eaten by time. The clockworks all go off at the same time again. Seven o'clock. The night passed like that, and they sat, alive, awake, but peaceful. Listening to the sound of the clocks, the ticking. Something beautiful.


	11. Letters of Unimportance

_My Dearest Brother,_

_I'm sorry that I had to leave for University. I know that mum and dad have probably gotten worse and you are probably feeling like running away. I can't say I blame you. I also can't tell you what to do. Just be aware that it would tear mother apart. University is different then I imagined it to be. The _children_ here are simply that, children. I am by far, more superior then them. They don't understand anything put to them. I find that I am the top in all of my classes, though that shouldn't surprise you younger brother. Funny story, sometimes I wish you were here, I'm sure that you would do well in all of these classes. Sometimes I think that you could be better then me, if only you would apply yourself, which you don't because you are a lazy sod. I think you get that from dad. And once again the conversation of this letter turns to mum and dad. I can't help but wonder if mummy will ever be able to forgive dad for being a git. And now I'm talking like it's a diary, which this certainly isn't. I would never keep a diary. _

_Right, getting away from that subject and now we're going to talk about school, which was the original intention of this letter. I've met some great blokes, some of them aren't so good though. And there is this rumor of a guy named James, but everyone called him Moriarty. Apparently he set something on fire, and blew up one of the chemistry labs, got kicked out or something. I have a best mate now, his name I won't tell you because you'll only poke fun at me. But Sherlock, you really are missing out. The girls here are fantastic. They are so pretty and smart it's just wonderful. Maybe I'll meet someone here, someone who would make me happy. Christmas break is soon, so maybe I'll come visit, or you could come visit up here if, of course, you haven't run away by then. I know you're planning too, and I told mummy. She'll probably try to stop you, but you can do whatever you want. If you have too, mummy said you could come up here to live. She sent me some money to take care of you, should you walk out. I obviously can't keep on subject so I'm going to end this letter. Good bye Sherlock. Write me when you get the chance all right?_

_Sincerely,_

_Mycroft._

_Mycroft,_

_I don't give a shit about your school. I've walked out and am coming to live with you, but not after I look into some flats, not that I can afford them or anything, but something might turn up. It might be best if you sent that money though. Always good to have something right? I burned your letter yesterday, just thought you should know. And for the record, I knew mummy would NOT try to stop me, you stupid sod. I am officially an urchin, and honestly, I LOVE IT. So I don't want you bloody coming down here to come and find me, because IT WON'T WORK. _

_How am I going to send this? Oh I know, I'll just pick pocket someone who walks by me! That is exactly what I'll do. I've been stealing mummy's mail, so I'll get the money. SEND IT TO ME ASAP. I've run out of my stash and I can't live properly anymore. Don't bother me anymore unless it's important._

_Sherlock_

_Sherlock,_

_No need to be so rude, all you had to do was ask politely. And because you didn't, I won't send it. You'll have to come see me if you need the money so bad. It is against the law to pick pocket people, you should be happy that I don't report you, scamp. Don't think I won't tell mummy about you stealing her mail. Come see me an-_

I don't read anymore as I shove his letter into my dirty pocket. I'm so hungry I can hardly move, how does he expect me to go out there and see him at the University. They'll throw me out as soon as they see me. Shit. Stupid dealers got me hooked, I need money to buy more, so I can get a fix. I curse my brother under my breath, why does he have to be so difficult? I hate him you know. I hate my brother. Arch nemesis indeed. Perfectly calm and collected. Isn't it wretched? I have no other choice. I need the money. I'll have to go to him, let him laugh and mock me because I have to go to him. For the first time in my life I regret the decision to leave home. I'm not even eighteen yet. How is this possible. Hope the cops don't catch me living out in the streets, they'd take me back to what I've run from, that life. I shudder, I don't want to think about such things. I don't see why Mycroft writes me, all he has to do is text. Knowing mother she is hoping that I'll get in touch with him, that I'll text him, so she's still paying for my unlimited texting, got to love that woman.

_I'm on my way._

_SH_

I pressed send, and trudged down the street. It shouldn't be too hard to sneak onto a train. I'm so desperate, he's going to help. He promised mummy.

_Good. I'll leave my window open. _

_Hopefully you know which one it is._

_MH_

I sighed exasperatedly before swiftly typing the reply,

_Knowing you,third floor,_

_farthest left window, near the labs._

_I should be there by tomorrow._

_SH_

_I'll be expecting you._

_MH_

_I'll be there late, you might be sleeping._

_SH_

_I won't be._

_MH_

_Don't pretend like you want to see me._

_I know the truth._

_SH_

_Has mummy moved out yet?  
MH_

_Just last night. _

_I can't go through the mail anymore._

_SH_

_Why were you doing that anyway?_

_MH_

_Doesn't matter. Father's a bastard._

_SH_

_Took you this long?  
MH_

_No. Took mummy this long._

_SH_

_Right. See you tomorrow._

_MH_

_You wish._

_SH_


	12. An ExSolider's Hell

Sherlock sat with a blanket pulled around him on the couch, looking and feeling miserable. He brought his feet up to his chest and shivers before wrapping the fleece around him more tightly. His nose was red and running and he was, if it is even possible, paler then usual. He was freezing, and burning at the same time. His throat stung and scratched, it hurt to swallow and he felt like at any moment he would lose the contents of his stomach. His whole body ached. Sherlock Holmes was sick.

The first day that Sherlock had realized he was sick was only two days ago. He couldn't get out of bed without feeling like a truck had run him over. No matter. He's Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't get sick. The first day he told John that he felt like, and I quote, "a dead man who has been mutilated several times, drowned in a river, pulled out again only to be run over by a bulldozer, shoved in a blender, dumped on the floor and stomped upon," was yesterday. At first John had laughed and was unbelieving until Sherlock got sick all over the kitchen floor and couldn't get up because he was too weak. Sherlock sat all day on that couch, with a pot next to him full of sick. John's footsteps alerted Sherlock and he lifted his head up quickly, expecting him. John pushed open the door and Sherlock immediately slumped over and let out a groan.

"Sherlock?"

"I feel horrible John. Let me die, I don't want to live like this. Leave me alone." Sherlock croaked, putting as much pain and suffering into his voice as he could manage without actually hurting himself. John laughed. Not what Sherlock was expecting. He was expecting pity and horror, the complete opposite of laughter and apathy.

"You aren't going to die Sherlock. It's only a fever. You'll get over it. Until then I'll make you a cuppa and you can just rest. You're body will do the rest." John headed to the kitchen and started rattling around with the teapot. Sherlock frowned,

"I don't want to wait. Ever. You're an army doctor, make me better!" John laughed again, before coming out of the kitchen so he could talk to Sherlock, teapot in hand,

"I can't make you better. I'm really good at bloody wounds, gashes, near death illnesses and things like that. You are nowhere near death Sherlock. Quit being a baby." Sherlock's frown deepened,

"John, if anyone can make me better it's you. What do I have to do? Pour this bucket of human sick over your head, because believe me, I will." This time John didn't laugh. Sherlock wasn't screwing around, he wanted to feel better, and he would do anything to do so. All laughter and playfulness left his voice,

"There really is nothing I can do. You can drink this tea, maybe that will help. You can get some sleep, and you can let it pass, but there is nothing I can do." A flash of anger passed over Sherlock's face, but was swiftly replaced by a look of sadness. He collapsed against the couch and sat there a moment before sighing loudly,

"I am dying. There is no other way on the face of the planet that I would feel like this and not be dying. I mean detox was bad enough, but this is even worse then detox. Are you sure there is no way you can help?" He looked at John hopefully. John felt pity for his best friend, unable to move, unable to eat anything without throwing it back up again, he shook his head remorsefully before continuing to make the tea. He brought Sherlock a nice hot cuppa and sat next to him on the couch,

"I know you feel really bad right now, but honestly, getting shot is probably the worst feeling you'll ever experience." Sherlock took a sip and winced as the scalding hot liquid burned his tongue,

"I've been shot before John."

"I don't think you have though." Sherlock looked him in the eye,

"John. I've been shot before." John didn't believe him. Who would shoot him? There really was no point, he'd just mock you for being weak and resorting to guns to take care of him. Although there were times he had wanted to shoot Sherlock himself, so maybe it was possible. John's disbelief showed on his face, and it hurt Sherlock. Who would NOT want to shoot him? No one in their right mind would leave him alive. Sherlock looked down at the mug he held in his hands and looked at John, and back again. Then, without quite thinking about it, he flung the nearly boiling liquid at him. John's training had taught to him move quickly, so most of the tea missed his face, but it burned his neck and upper chest pretty bad. He yelped and leaped about a foot in the air.

"What the Hell was that for?" Sherlock simply held out the cup, waiting for a refill. "No! I'm not giving you anymore! You just flung that at me! I could have gone blind, then what use would I be?"

"You didn't believe me." Sherlock's hurt feelings showed in his voice slightly, or maybe that was the sore throat that John had been unable to cure thus far. "Do you believe me now?" John considered this for a moment,

"Yes." He took the cup and filled it again, "This time, don't throw it at me okay? That really hurt." As if to emphasize his point he rubbed his chest slightly. A wry smile started to form on Sherlock's face before he sipped his tea again.

"Sorry John." John smiled for a moment,

"No you're not."

"John, I'm kind of in a bad mood right now, so it's probably best to stay as far away from me as possible. Maybe go see Sarah, take her out or something. I'm pretty sure me and the bucket will become the best of pals." John's grin widened,

"Do you really think I would leave you here, cooped up, bored, in our flat when you're sick? Think again. No way am I going to leave you unsupervised. You're sick and you need help." Sherlock actually smiled at that,

"You just don't want me to root through your stuff. Again."

"You've got that right. Plus, you're sick. Finish your tea, I need to tidy up the kitchen." Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"Yes mummy." before he gulped down the rest of the tea and held out the mug for John. John took it carefully and rinsed it out. After drying it and putting it in it's proper cupboard, John walked back to the living room to talk with Sherlock some more. Sherlock had fallen over on his side, and lay sleeping on the couch. His complaints could no longer be voiced, at least not for several hours. John let out a sigh of relief before sitting down next to his friend on the couch.

"Get well, please. You're putting me through Hell you are. And I'd rather not go back there thanks."


	13. A Meeting of Importance

_Sherlock Age: 26_

I walk briskly down the street, a destination already in mind, Scotland Yard. Normally I would never go to the police, but the only way they can solve this case is with my help. And they need to solve it soon, lest more people should die. As I pass hordes of people my mind can't help but to make deductions concerning their lives. There, that women in red, her husband recently left her, the ring tan on her hand shows that. That young boy on the phone, he's breaking up with his girlfriend, the way his voice warbles shows that it isn't voluntary, and that his mother doesn't approve of her. That woman is in a healthy relationship. That guy is gay, the way he holds himself and winks at me as he passes. A crisp breeze ruffles my hair before I shove my way into the crowded police station. A police woman sits at the reception desk, she's got ink on her hands and she looks slightly angry. Conclusion, she just finished up paperwork that wasn't hers.

"Yes, I'd like to see a detective about the bombing case. I have some information for him." She looks at me a moment and then starts laughing, as if she didn't believe me.

"What information could you possibly have for the DI?" I am offended, hurt that they wouldn't believe that I could have information for them that could help in a deadly case.

"Would you like me to tell your husband that you were not out with friends last night like you would have him believe but that you were out at the pup down the street? Or how about telling your best friend that the text message you just sent was talking bad about her?" A look of shock crosses her face, swiftly replaced by anger,

"You wouldn't dare!" I leaned forward, completely serious, face set on a look of determination,

"Wouldn't I?" Anger replaced by fear and she picks up the phone next to the desk. Pushing the number seven she puts it to her ear,

"Yeah, Detective Inspector, there is someone here for you. Says he's got information concerning the bombing case," there is a pause as the detective responded to the news, "Well I've tried sir, but he's very... insistent." Another pause, "Yes sir. Right away sir." She sets the phone down and looks at me, "He'll see you now." I nod in thanks before brushing past the desk till I see the door in question. DI Lestrade it says in bold letters. I roll my eyes, just like detectives, have to show off their names. I turn the door knob and push the door open. The man behind the desk looks up,

"You need something?" He looks disbelievingly at me, as if doubting my deductive skills. I nod,

"The man you're looking for." He laughs a barking laugh, mocking me,

"He leaves no evidence!" He looks at me oddly for a moment and then, "Are you confessing?"

"Wha- No. I'm handing you the man in charge. It's the postman. Who else could it be eh? Who else would be bitter enough? Who else would have access? Don't you people think? Of course not, you're the police, the police never think." I stop talking and start pacing, then I look him in the face, "Well? You going to make an arrest?" He looks shocked,

"What is your proof?"

"My proo-? Oh for the love of God, look, really look. It's the only logical answer, plus only a man with an experience with bunions could do something like this." Lestrade looks flabbergasted,

"That makes sense. In a crazy sort of way." He looks at me a moment and then as if finally seeing that I am not like most people, "Right, who the Hell are you?" I turn to leave,

"It doesn't matter, what matters is you get the postman." I start to open the door and turn halfway to look at him, "I'd have higher hopes for you Detective Inspector if you do what I say. But already I can tell you aren't what I was hoping. What will London do with you?" Leaving that with him I close the door behind me and I smile slightly, that will ruffle his feathers. I stroll away, and am just about to push out the front door to go home. Lestrade stops me,

"I'll need to know your name to put it down in the paper work." I turn to look at him a moment and push past him out the door but not before I shout behind me,

"Sherlock Holmes."


	14. Late One Night

_John_

I wake to the sounds of rummaging coming from downstairs. 'Burglars' is my first thought, my next is as follows 'Shit. Sherlock is down there.' I get up carefully, trying not to make noise as I reach for my revolver. Always on the bedside table, it's always there. My hand curls around the grip, feeling the cool metal against my palm. I ease open the door, hoping that the hinges won't squeak like they usually do when I open my door. They don't and I let out a silent sigh of relief. Carefully I tread down the stairs, one leg over the other. I start to question myself on this curious walk as I stay near the wall where the stairs don't creak as much, 'Where did you learn this odd walk? Must've been the telly. It's that spy walk all the secret agents and police use when catching bad guys. This is kind of cool. I never thought living with Sherlock would entitle me to use this walk.' I reach the landing and turn into the room, gun poised and ready to shoot the intruder. No one in the sitting room, that leaves the kitchen and Sherlock's own room. Where is Sherlock? There is a light in the kitchen, faint one, and a cool draft. The refrigerator is open? I swing in, gun raised, only to step back, shocked. Sherlock is bent over rooting through the fridge. Sherlock never eats, how he manages to stay alive was a mystery to my until just now. My gun clatters to the floor and Sherlock whirls around, a bowl of jelly slipping from his hands.

"SHIT! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JOHN! DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING! NEARLY GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK! ARE YOU INSANE?" Sherlock hollers at me, his voice breaking the silence. He looks surprised and scared, and he had dropped his jelly. He bends down to retrieve it, "Honestly, what were you thinking?" Oh good Lord, he wants me to actually answer him. I study his face for a moment and without answering him I start asking questions of my own,

"Sherlock? What are you doing in here? Why is the jelly out? What are you even doing awake?" I pause before going on the defensive, "Do you have the munchies?" He looks even more surprised and immediately starts to protest,

"Wha-? Me? Have the munchies? Are y-? You're crazy. I would nev-. I mean No. No I don't have the munchies." A smile forms on my face as the reality of Sherlock trying to hide that he has to do the same things other human beings have to is slightly funny.

"I think you do have the munchies. Sherlock Holmes is hungry. Sherlock Holmes is having a midnight snack." He looks horrified as he puts the jelly in the fridge again,

"What? No!"

"Yes! Yes you do! Oh this is great. This is just great! You-You astound me." I advance on him, and it surprises me that he backs up, "Mister, 'Oh I'm better then everyone, I don't have to do the same things everyone else does. I don't eat because it slows down the thinking process, I don't even sleep because my stupid idiotic head.' Even you get the munchies. Is this what you do instead of eating normal food?" Sherlock was at a loss for words, "Do you sneak out here every night and steal food? Did you eat my left over Chinese?" My nose is an inch away from his chest, he looks genuinely scared,

"Now, John, lets not jump to conclusions. Please." I poke him hard in the sternum,

"Then you had better bloody well explain." He sighed submissively,

"Fine fine fine. Fine. I'll tell you, but could you please back up, you're starting to make me uncomfortable." I hadn't even noticed but oblige none the less. Sherlock takes the bowl out again and sits on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table. Setting the bowl in his lap he gestures for me to take the armchair. He pulls out a spoon and digs in, "Yes John, I ate the left over Chinese. I only eat at night because then I can sleep while the digestion occurs. I get some bloody awful dreams sometimes, but apart from that it's a perfect system. Some days though, I don't sleep, or eat, at all, and that is just fine. The only reason I eat at all is because I get bored, and because I don't want Mrs. Hudson to find my withered husk of a body on the floor one day. That would be embarrassing." There is a silence as he eats another spoonful of red jelly. The serenity of the picture causes me to laugh, long and loud and clear. He pauses, spoon halfway to his open mouth, "What?" I say nothing but continue to laugh, "What on Earth are you laughing at John?" I laugh some more before looking at him again,

"Sherlock, you astound me. I'm going back to bed. Have a good snack, and by God, get some sleep. You look like crap." A faint smile etched itself on Sherlock's face,

"Good night John." I start to leave, closing the door behind me but he stops me with, " And I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about my eating disorder." I smile and chuckle a little,

"If that's what you call it, sure Sherlock. Sure." I trudge up the stairs, laughing a little. Sherlock is certainly a man of mystery, but I'm glad I stayed here. Sherlock has unknowingly supplied me with ammo against the worst of his criticisms against me, this next week will be a laugh. I can finally fight back. Munchies indeed.


	15. Is It Really That Odd?

_Sherlock Age: 21_

I walk briskly down the street, my breath turning into clouds of white fog. I pull my coat tighter around me, winter months, some of my least favorite, crime in the city dies down and snow makes it even colder outside. Lost in thought I stand still, looking at the sign post, something round and compact hits me in the back and I spin around, ready to fight whatever threw that snowball at me. It's a little boy and I smile slightly, lowering my arms. He is doubled over laughing and pointing at me. Right, time to wipe that smug look off his face, and I bend down, scooping cold snow onto my palms. When I was a kid I was great at this, terrorizing teachers and adults in the winter, lets see if I am as good as I was then. There a perfect snowball. I back up slightly and take aim, three, two, one, and I fling it. The snow explodes in the middle of the kids back and he stops laughing. I have already made another one and hold it ready, barely noticing the cold of the snow seeping through my bare hands. The kid takes another handful of snow and chucks it at me, getting me full in the face, he's laughing again. This blond kid has just thrown two snowballs at me, he looks so happy, it makes me want to laugh, so I do. I throw the snowball at him, catching him in the cheek and start laughing too. Other people passing us stared, looking confused before going about their business. He stoops down for another snowball and I take off down the street, weaving in and out of people, bumping into them, making them drop their bags, laughing. For the first time in a while, I am happy, really happy. I'm having fun! Another snowball hits the back of my leg as I run, and I look back behind me. There is a whole group of urchins chasing me, arms raised, ready to fire snowballs at me. I run straight for the park, open space, loads of snow to make ammo with. I stoop down while I'm running and pick up some more snow, forming it into a perfect ball. Whirling around, I toss it into the group of kids and then continue running. More snowballs pelt my body as I bend down, getting more snow. The snow balls stop for a moment as the kids make more snowballs, and I pelt several of them before they can even stand. The blond kid tackles me, catching me off guard and I fall into the soft snow, feeling the cold wetness of melting snow seep through my coat.

_One Hour Later_

I trudge back up the street toward Mycroft's home, smiling, exhausted, and ready to get dry. I reach the door step and take out my key, opening the door and letting myself in. I hang my soaking wet coat on the stair banister and take off my scarf. Mycroft is waiting for me in the living room, next to the fireplace.

"What happened to you?" He asked after examining me closely. My smile fell, I don't want to talk to him about having fun. He'll just make fun of me.

"Nothing." I brush half melted snow from my hair and take my favorite seat next to the fire.

"Snowball fight?" I don't answer but untie my shoes and take my socks off. I remember now why I hate winter. It's cold and wet. And it has snow. Snow makes you cold and wet. I don't like being cold and wet. It's perfectly hateful. "Sherlock." I don't even have to look up to see that he's frowning at me,

"Mycroft."

"You're getting my chair all wet."

"And you are nagging me, so I think we're just a tad bit even." Silence on his part. Good. I have got him to shut up. At last.

"Sherlock, you'd tell me if it was something bad right?"

"Right Mycroft, because I need you to worry about my life all the time." I say sarcastically, seeing his face fall I add on, "Yeah. It was a snowball fight. What does it matter?" He smiles a little bit,

"It just does. You go sometimes and I don't know where you go. And I worry about you. Sherlock, in a few months you'll be twenty two, do you know that?"

"Yes Mycroft, I am aware of the date. You don't have to treat me like a child."

"Obviously I do."

"No you don't." I stand up and start to climb the stairs, "I can take care of myself. I have everything I need, and I don't need you to worry about me. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you Sherlock? Do you really? Because I don't think you fully comprehend the seriousness of your situation. When you turn twenty two, if you're still living here, I'm going to make sure that you get clean. It isn't healthy for you to be living like this, and I won't stand for it in my house. So if I were you, I'd try to start getting clean, it would definitely do you a world of good." I say nothing as I climb the stairs to my bedroom. I sit with a sigh on my bed, hearing the creaking of the springs. Would Mycroft really do it? Would he really take my supplements, would he ruin my life? Without a doubt, yes. I pry up the loose floor board and take out one of the many syringes, examining it. Without another thought I put it back and stomp the board down. I head to the bathroom, a shower is what I need best right now. I take my shirt off and a snowball hits the window, covering it with snow, I pull the curtain back and look down. The urchins from before are down there, all grouped together, smiling at me, laughing, wanting me to go play. I shake my head sadly, and gesture over my shoulder, as if scolding someone inside for not letting me go play in the snow. Their little faces fell and they walked away, looking dejected. Inside I felt bad for them, but my hands had taken a beating so it wasn't too hard to say no. I strip down and turn on the hot water, letting it flow across my hand before I pulled the valve that turned the shower bit on. I step in and pull the curtain around me and sit there thinking. I let the water caress my skin, letting it revive my body, ease the bruises and the aches, heat up the coldness that had leaked through my coat. Snow. All of this because of snow. I hate the winter, I hate the coldness, the happiness, the holidays. I hate the snow. But I love it at the same time. And I think that's odd.


	16. Je Ne Sais Pas

_Dear Avid Readers, this is your author speaking. Hello. The following bit is quite interesting, I'm experimenting with different languages. Specifically French. The translation for the dialogue will be after the quotation marks in italics, so don't freak out please. Thank you. I would much appreciate it if I could have some feed back on this little trial run. Thanks a bunch. See you._

_Time Lord Victorious_

_Sherlock Holmes Age: 27_

_Paris, France_

I sit quietly, legs crossed and arms folded. Sherlock, you can do this. Stay calm, he's only a French aristocrat, you have the MI6 on your side as well as the rest of the British government, he can't hurt you if you wanted to. Get the painting, and get out.

"Tu sais le raison que j'suis ici, ouai " _You know why I'm here, yes? _The man in the chair opposite of me nods, smiling a ruthless smile,

"Pour la peinture ." _For the painting._ I nod,

"Où est-ce? MI6 voudrait que cette peinture aurait le plus moins sang qu'est possible. Tu ne voudrais pas rendre cette situation plus difficile pour moi, d'accord? " _Where is it? MI6 would very much like to have that painting with as little blood spilled as possible. You wouldn't want to make this difficult for me would you?_ His grin widens and then he gestures to the men on either side of the mahogany doorway. I shift a little in my chair, repositioning myself, ready to spring at a moments notice. I survey the lushly decorated room for a moment, taking in the paintings on the wall, the bright red carpet, the door, the window, latched and locked, the fireplace it's flue wide open. I look closely for a way to escape if need be. Hopefully negotiations wouldn't come to that, but the smile on the Frenchman's face is slightly suspicious. The Frenchman himself is enough to arouse suspicions. Lank greasy black hair that clings to his face makes it looks like he's had a run in with some people who are not very good, keeping him up all day, all night for several weeks. Interesting. He has a frog-like mouth and dirty fingernails. Two hunky men entered, carrying a wrapped canvas.

"Puis-je? " _May I? _He gestures for me to go ahead. I tear the butcher paper and reveal the painting. It's a fake. Of course it's fake. How could it not be fake. The scrawl near the bottom looks like a seven year old tried to copy their parent's signature. The stars that dot the sky looks too much like someone trying to be professional and failed miserably. "Tu crois qu'j'suis stuipide? " _Do you think I'm stupid?_

"Je ne comprends pas " _I don't understand..._

"Tu crois que tu pourrais me tromper? Sherlock Holmes? " _Do you think you can fool me? Sherlock Holmes?_

"Monsieur, je ne comprends pas. Vous voulez la peinture, ici, c'est la peinture. " _Sir, I don't understand. You want the painting. Here is the painting. _Right. Real painting. And I'm Van Gough. Real painting, behind the safe. Just need a moment alone... How to get that? As if an answer to my prayer,

"FEU! FEU! FEU!" _Fire! Fire! Fire!_ Came from down the hall. Our Frenchman leaps to his feet. He shouts something in French, speaking too fast for me to understand. They leave me sitting in my chair as they race down the hall, running straight into a crowd of frenzied French people racing to the fire. I stand when I find myself alone, I have to work quickly if this is going to work. Flue first. I pull the flue shut, that will flood the room smoke. Then the window, unlatching the hooks so that it's open for my escape. Last of all the painting behind the desk. I take the painting down to reveal the safe. Working quickly I put my ear to the cool metal as I turn the dial, hearing the tumblers fall in place. The safe clicks open and the painting inside is revealed. At last. I carefully take it out and remove the paper. Perfect. Not one flaw. Lestrade will love to give this back to the family. Stupid git of a brother, selling it for drug money. Smoke has engulfed the room, entering my lungs every time I take a breath. I cough, covering my mouth with my hand. I head to the window, throwing it open, I step out onto the ledge and inch along the wall until I was positioned correctly. I leap from the wall, feeling my coattails fly out behind me. I land with a thud on the neighboring building. I snake down the fire escape, keeping the painting clutched tight to my chest. Safe and free I race down the street to the waiting car. I pull open the door and slide in. Lestrade is there to greet me,

"Did you get it." I hold the painting out in reply. "Any trouble?" The car starts to move. I purposely don't answer his question and Lestrade sighs. "I heard there was a fire. Was that you?"

"Closed a flue in one of the other rooms, causing the fire alarms to go off. Yes that was me."

"I take it you did have trouble then."

"Not anymore then usual."

"Right." Silence falls again. As usual.

* * *

_Hello again. And just for the record, this is NOT my favorite one. I consider this one the be the least well done, the most crappy and I don't think I like it at all. But it's whatever. Figured you guys should have this. Tell me what you think? _

_French Translation done by my very good friend, and beautiful writer, who doesn't have an account, Chloe. Love her. Right. _

_Time Lord Victorious  
_


	17. Molly Insured Part 1

"Why should I care about anybodies death other than my own? Everyone dies. That's what people do." Those are the words John heard first when he entered the flat. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch as usual, phone pressed to his ear, nearly shouting at whoever was on the other phone. "No. I'm not going to help you. I said that last time was the last, and I meant it. You're not dragging me into that life again. I just got out of it. Honestly, do you think I'm stupid, because that is really low for you." He hadn't even looked up to acknowledge John's presence. There was a pause before Sherlock's knuckles whitened on the phone as he gripped it harder. "You wouldn't dare." His voice was low and dangerous as he sat up fully, a look of fear momentarily crossed his face only to replaced by anger, "You have no proof that I did that. You also have more dirt for me to dig up on you. Why don't I just call Lestrade right now and tell him where you are?" A small smile crawled across Sherlock's lips, "Oh yes I would, don't you dare doubt me for a moment. Remember what that cost you last time? And I believe this ends our conversation." He hung up and after stuffing his phone in his jacket pocket turned to John, "Oh. Didn't see you come in." It wasn't a question of where he had been, or when he had come back, it wasn't a question at all. A simple statement. The only thing Sherlock said to John for quite a while. He put his palms together and sat back again, looking at the ceiling, a faraway look in his eyes.

"No, 'Hello John. How are you? Haven't seen you for a few days. Is everything alright?' Nope. That's fine because I don't have anything to share, and even if I told you, you wouldn't care." John was annoyed. If he knew anything about Sherlock he would wager that he didn't even notice him to be gone. Sherlock sat up immediately,

"You were gone?" John wasn't amused, or surprised. He wanted to punch Sherlock in the face. Sherlock's face went from surprised to realization, "That's why you didn't answer me when I shouted at you yesterday. Not that it matters now, but it all makes sense now." There was a silence for a moment and then Sherlock wordlessly pulled his phone out again, "Sherlock Holmes," there is a pause while someone talks on the other side of the line, "Molly, calm down. Calm down. Molly." He rolled his eyes at John before interrupting her, "I'll be right over." He hung up again and stood, turning to John, "You coming?" John shrugged as Sherlock tied the scarf around his neck,

"What's going on?"

"No idea. She wasn't very... communicative." John nodded before putting his coat back on,

"Bart's then?" Sherlock nodded before swinging his coat on and opening the door. He held it for John before closing it behind him. The cab ride was silent as John looked out the window and Sherlock was lost in thought. Sherlock pushed open the door leading to the hospital's autopsy room. Molly spun around,

"FINALLY! WHAT THE HELL TOOK YOU SO LONG?" Sherlock approached the table,

"We were busy." He examines the man on the table, decay had already started to destroy the mans face and shoulders. Molly gestures to the slowly decaying man,

"Explain." Sherlock looked at the body for a moment then looked at Molly.

"Molly, this is what we call decay. I believe you have worked here for a long time, and have seen dead and decaying bodies before." Molly was exasperated, her cheeks were flushed and she stamped one foot,

"Contrary to popular belief Sherlock, I'm not stupid." Sherlock smiled a little,

"Then why did you call me down here?"

"Sherlock-" He interrupted her,

"Molly-?"

"SHERLOCK! HE'S ONLY BEEN DEAD ONE DAY!" John backed up a little,

"He shouldn't look like that. I've seen all kinds of death and decay before, being a Medical Doctor and all, but I've never seen anything like this. One day? How is this possible?" Molly seemed to have calmed down a little bit and was more serious,

"I was hoping you could tell me. I've run all the tests I could think of. No toxins in his blood, nothing that could cause this rate of decay in a human body. So now Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you tell me." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, before taking his coat and scarf off,

"Contrary to popular belief Molly, I don't know everything." She walked up to him and slapped him across the face. Sherlock was shocked. Molly had never slapped him before. He backed up slightly, bumping into a table. Molly put one finger up, pointing at him,

"You will tell me how this is possible because I will get fired if I don't explain this." Sherlock was flabbergasted, "The Lab is all fixed up for you. Get to work." She pushed him out the door toward the lab before going back. She pressed her back against the door before seeming to realize that John was still there. "You can join him if you want." She smiled radiantly, drunken with power. John smiled at her,

"You having fun then?" She grinned,

"Oh you don't even know!" His smile widened before he pushed past the door to follow Sherlock. He found him in the lab, busying himself with a couple of petri dishes with samples of the man's blood and fluids, looking cowed. He looked up as John entered,

"Has Molly always been that scary?" John laughed,

"No. Bad day I think."

"Must have been a Hell of a day." Sherlock shuddered slightly before putting the sample under the microscope and taking his usual seat. After a moment he took the sample out and looked at it with the naked eye. "Right. Pass me my phone."

"Thought of it have you?"

"No. My phone."

"Where? If it's in your jacket again, get it yourself." Sherlock sighed and tore his eyes away from the dish to dial Molly's number on his phone,

"No Molly. It's impossible. No, I'm being serious. No. Come see for yourself. This is impossible. Isn't it wonderful? Something new! I've been waiting for this for ages!" Molly pushed open the door as she hung up her phone. Nearly pushing Sherlock off his perch she mumbled under her breath,

"Let me see." She sat down and looked at it under the microscope, letting out a breath, "That really is impossible. There is nothing wrong with him, nothing wrong with his blood, no sign of anything."

"There you see?" Molly nodded before getting up,

"Shit. What am I going to tell my boss?"


	18. Molly Insured Part 2

No one moved for quite a while, all thinking, trying to grasp some, at least semi-believable, explanation for the increased rate of decay. None came and Sherlock swore under his breath.

"Molly, I need to get some more samples, there has got to be something. I'm missing something." Molly nodded in agreement,

"Be my guest. If you can figure this out..." she paused for something that would express her thanks well enough, she didn't find any and went this, "I don't know what I'd do for you." Sherlock smiled a little bit before leaving the lab to get more samples. Molly turned to John, "Do you have any ideas?" John looked a little surprised that Molly was asking him, he was sure that she didn't even know his name,

"A few, not many of them make sense." Molly smiled a little,

"I will use anything I can." John repositioned himself and smiled a little bit at her,

"Bugs."

"Bugs?"

"Yes. Bugs." Molly raised an eyebrow,

"You think bugs are responsible?"

"Yes. Yes I do." Molly looked at him for a moment, with a curious look on her face, then she smiled,

"That is actually brilliant. Do you have any idea what kind of bugs?" He looked at her for a moment,

"Should I?" Molly gave him a look, "The microscopic kind," there was a silence while Molly debated the probability of that absurd idea in her head, "Only on the skin though. Maybe he got some bugs on him and they are eating his skin." Another profound silence until Sherlock burst in looking pleased, petri dish held high over his head,

"BUGS!" John sat up straighter, looking surprised,

"Was I right?" Sherlock looked down at his friend,

"What?"

"Was I right? Bugs. Little ones. Eating him?"

"Oh." Sherlock didn't say anything for a minute, "I don't know. Molly could you move, I need to put this under the microscope to take a look." Placing the petri dish under the microscope, Sherlock sat on the stool again, placing his eyes over the eye piece. He sat like that for several minutes before making an exclamation of surprise and happiness, "That makes perfect sense! Why didn't I think of that before? Am I really that thick?" Molly looked at him a moment,

"Cellular degradation?"

"Yes. The lysosomes seem to have gone hyper active and are in fact eating all of the cell's organelles, not just the ones that have been worn out. Something told all his cells to break down, told the lysosomes to eat everything. Interesting." Molly looked confused,

"But that doesn't make any sense. What told them to go hyper and eat everything? The body decays naturally yes, but what could have done something like this?" John perked up,

"I still think it's bugs." Sherlock whirled on him,

"What makes you think it's bugs?" John shrugged,

"In Afghanistan, we heard rumors of a type of nanobot being made to hastily devour flesh. To what end I don't know, but this does remind me of something like that." Sherlock was quite for a moment,

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. What do you think Molly?" She thought for a moment before answering, not wanting to appear stupid. She answered slowly,

"It makes sense," Sherlock frowned, "But I'm not entirely sure that it's even possible." John looked down, embarrassed. "Sorry..." She struggled for a name, not finding one and feeling highly embarrassed she asked, "Sorry, what's your name again?" John looked up and offered a small smile,

"John. John Watson." Molly nodded and silently filed the information away before sticking her hand out,

"Molly. Molly Hooper. Work here at Bart's. But you already know that." She shook his hand before turning to Sherlock again, "Examine the skin for any traces of bite marks or little crawling flesh coloured bugs. Thanks. I'm going to get a coffee, you stay here." She turned to John before leaving, "You want to come?" Before John could answer Sherlock stepped in,

"You don't actually believe him do you?" Molly rounded on him,

"I'm not saying that I fully buy into the idea that it could be bugs, but I don't want to any bases uncovered, considering I'm probably going to get fired. Just look into it." She grabbed John by the arm and practically dragged him out. A few moments later they found themselves at a table with coffee. Molly put her head in her hands for a moment before John spoke,

"You fancy him don't you." Not a question, not a prying remark, a statement. A fact. Molly looked up fearfully,

"Is it really that noticeable?" John smiled a little before taking a sip of his coffee,

"Not to him it isn't." She let out a sigh of relief,

"Good." John leaned across the table,

"But doesn't it bother you that he doesn't seem to notice, or care about you?" Molly shook her head,

"It's like falling in love with movie stars, you have the satisfaction of loving them from afar. It's quite entertaining," She looked down before confessing, "But sometimes I wish he wouldn't just say something nice to me because he wants to see a body or something. Sometimes I think it would be nice for him to be nice, because he's being nice." She looked up at John for a moment, "Why do you put up with him?" John smiled,

"He's a very interesting person. I think he needs someone to make sure he doesn't kill himself, and that duty falls on me I guess." He shrugged, "He isn't so bad, not really. Once you get past the little things he does, the nit picky remarks he makes about you or when he takes your things without asking, or when he leaves bits and pieces of people in the fridge, the microwave, the stove. He's actually pretty decent." Molly's jaw dropped, "Shocker I know! He just needs someone sometimes." Molly smiled,

"No it's not that. I finally figured it out!" She stood, knocking her chair back,

"Figured what out?"

"How to get Sherlock to notice me!" John looked worried as Molly rooted through her purse, "It's not what you think, I promise. I'm not going to die of unnatural causes or anything like that." She pulled out a tenner and bought another coffee. Black, with two sugars, just how he likes it. "Come one John. We have work to do."

Sherlock looked up as she entered,

"Brought you coffee." She sat it down in front of him and showed him a dazzling smile. He looked at her a moment,

"What?"

"I. Brought. You. A. Coffee." Sherlock looked down at the coffee,

"I can see that."

"So there you go. You're welcome." Sherlock didn't say anything but narrowed his eyes,

"What are you playing at?" Molly furrowed her brow,

"Nothing." There was a moments pause and then, "Now get out of my morgue and take your lost puppy with you." She said before gesturing to a hurt looking John. Sherlock stood quickly and tied his scarf around his neck before getting his coat,

"Good bye Molly. See you around. Come one John." And he left without another word. Molly sat down on the stool and looked into the microscope, a sly smile on her face. Mission accomplished.


	19. Genius?

_John_

"Sherlock, who's at the door?" I call down the stairs from my little bedroom upstairs, he yells back up to me,

"I don't know John! How would I know?" And continues to do whatever he was doing.

"Well. Aren't you going to answer it?"

"No." I sigh before tromping down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes. The man who is so lazy I have to get his phone for him. When it's in his jacket pocket. I pull open the door to stare into the smiling faces of several warmly clad people. As soon as my door opened they immediately burst into Christmas songs, a loud ringing sound that brings Sherlock to the door.

"What the Hell?" The smile of the large woman in front falters a moment but they never stopped singing. When they finish singing they turn and walk away. I stand at the door a moment before closing the door and turning to Sherlock,

"I think we just got a group of carolers at our door." Sherlock is confused and it shows on his face. He furrows his brow while looking at me,

"Carolers?"

"You don't-" Sherlock looks at me a moment as if to say "don't say it" but I don't listen, "You don't what carolers are? You've never caroled before?" I start laughing at him and he frowns slightly,

"What? I don't really have time for... Holidays." I don't stop laughing at him, he's never caroled before, he probably doesn't even know any Christmas carols. He probably doesn't even know how to sing. His frown deepens, "Right. You've had your fun, you can stop laughing now. It's really not that funny."

"Yeah, it kind of is." Sherlock goes into the kitchen and sits down a moment. I follow behind him,

"If you're going to insult me you can just leave. I am busy you know." I sit down, suddenly curious,

"What do you mean you don't have time for holidays? You seem pretty open right now. No new cases or anything." He sighs a moment and then he confesses reluctantly,

"When I was a kid we didn't do holidays. Not ever. I've never gotten a Christmas present or gone, what was it?, caroling. It's just not something I've done before." I look at his face for a moment and then a broad smile crosses my face,

"You are being serious. You've never gone caroling. You've never had carolers, you probably never had eggnog before." He nods, feeling slightly ashamed at the notion. "Well then Mr. Holmes, I think it's time you had a real proper Christmas." He looks up at me,

"Don't think you're doing me a favor. I don't need this holiday stuff. I don't need presents or phony stories. I don't need holiday cheer or anything like that. I'm fine. You aren't doing me a favor. Christmas isn't my thing." I stand up and grip his arm, pulling him to his feet,

"Come on, we're going for a drink." He yanks his arm out of my grip and stares at me, appalled,

"What? NO! I'm not going out. There is snow on the ground, and it's cold. And," he picks up his vial and thrusts it into my face, "I'M BUSY!" Still smiling I take the glass from him and put it on the table,

"Not any more." I put throw his coat at him along with his scarf before bundling myself up. I push him out the door. He doesn't want to go out. He's made that perfectly clear, he only moves when I nudge him and he skirts away from the snow and ice that glitter on the sidewalk. He caves into himself and gives me a look. If looks could kill, I would be dead, a thousand times over. Lucky me they don't. I smile widely on the inside, congratulating myself on my genius. I have gotten Sherlock Holmes out of the flat.

"John, do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?"

"Yes I do." I say simply as I steer him to the curb to hail a cab. I pull open the door for him and am about to stuff him inside. He spins on me and tosses me aside before sprinting back down the street toward our flat. In a moment I catch up to him, grabbing him by his coat on the back, "No. You are coming to have a drink with me. Tonight. Right now. And if we're lucky someone might with you a happy Christmas." He groans loudly and struggles against me as I try to pull him back to the cab. The cabbie looked impatiently at me and I gestured to him as if to try and reassure him that we will be using that cab.

"It's not the pub that I worry about, it's the people. You're all so dull! Sometimes I wonder how you have managed to build a city, let alone countries. It really is a marvel." That's right Sherlock, try and make me angry so that I let you go and you can dash back to the flat. As if.

"Not going to work this time Sherlock." As if sensing his impending doom of the waiting cab drawing near, he completely collapses his body, falling to the ground with a thud, dragging me with him. I swear that's a smile on his lips. I swear under my breath, "Sherlock. Come on. Get up. Now." He shakes his head, dark curls trembling slightly. I sigh and motion for the cabbie to leave. No use now. Sherlock isn't going to get up, and the people passing us on the streets look at us funny. It really isn't worth it. I stand up to leave Sherlock on the cold ground. "If you want to freeze to death, be my guest." I walk toward the flat, leaving him in the snow. I start to open the door and Mrs. Hudson is standing there,

"I'm sorry love!" She chuckles slightly before pushing past me, "I thought I heard something, a struggle? Why is Sherlock lying in a heap on the ground? He's going to catch his death." She hobbles over to him and leans down to look him in the face, "Sherlock dear. Why don't you come in. I can make you and John a nice cuppa. Just this once." From my stance by the door I can see Sherlock smile before he unfolds his tall thin frame and stands. He dusts himself off and waltzes in, brushing past me as if I wasn't there. I hold the door for Mrs. Hudson who follows him upstairs,

"Some biscuits would be nice too." The comment is directed at Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock throws himself on the couch.

"Not your housekeeper." She busies herself in the kitchen, putting the kettle on as I take my usual seat in the armchair and I brood. And to think, this whole affair started with carolers. Carolers of all people. I don't really fancy them.


	20. Meaningless Conversation

_John_

I trudge up the stairs, feeling slightly dejected. Stupid machines at the grocery keep pissing me off. They don't work. Ever. No groceries, that means calling in, that means that I have to expect Sherlock to not eat. Again. I open the door and walk in. I start to take my jacket off when the unmistakeable click of a gun being cocked pricks me ears up. I spin around, but before I can even see who is holding the gun BANG! A hole appears in the wall next to my head and a little bit of plaster shakes itself loose from the wall.

"SHIT!" I instantly drop to the floor, to avoid any other shots that might be headed my way. None come. I raise my head a little. Sherlock is lying on the couch, holding the gun out for me to take it away. I stand quickly and snatch the gun before look down on him, "You could have killed me." A small smile travels across Sherlock's face, I'd say mission accomplished.

"I wouldn't have killed you John. I was inches off, if you didn't observe." I frown at him,

"If you had been anyone else I would have put a bullet through your heart." I say grimly before taking my gun out of my jacket. I took it off completely and hung it up.

"I don't doubt that John. You have killed for me once already." My heart sinks, I don't like thinking about the bad cabby. No matter how much I try to rationalize it I can't stop feeling like I have screwed up something major.

"You were going to do something stupid." I say quietly before going to the kitchen to root through the refrigerator.

"You've been doing that a lot lately." Sherlock remarked thoughtfully, not really paying attention to me or anything else for that matter.

"What?" He looks at me,

"Stopping me from doing something stupid."

"Oh. Yeah," I smile a little bit before continuing, "How did you ever survive without me?" I tease. His facial features hardened,

"Just fine thanks." He is lying but I'm not going to push him.

"Right, because you don't need anyone because you're Sherlock Holmes, and no one can compare to your amazing intellect and powers of deduction and observation." He smiled a crooked smile,

"Exactly." He reached over and plucked his laptop off the coffee table and set it on he knees before opening it loudly, "And I do recall telling you that our cases aren't adventures." I close the refrigerator door with a snap, feeling a rush of cold air being pushed out,

"You read my blog."

"Of course I do. We're flatmates." My hand on the handle holds tighter and my knuckles turn white. I don't know why I am so offended, I really shouldn't be. We do share a flat. He is my best mate. Why should I care? But I do and I don't really know why. I want retribution,

"Well do you have anything personal that I can read?"

"Of course not. I don't have any need for something as personal as that. And if you don't want people to read you're blog, you shouldn't have put it on the internet. You should keep a nice little journal that you hide under your bed so that no one will ever read it or find out about it ever." He's smiling now, he likes to ridicule me. I guess he does need some one to vent to.

"It's not so much the other people that I worry about reading my blog. It's you. I take a lot of liberties there."

"I can understand why. Don't call them adventures anymore. Trust me, I'll know if you do." I look at him a moment,

"God. That is so creepy." He looks up while hitting the enter key. I hear the sigh that his website makes every time he posts something new,

"What is?" I lean against the refrigerator,

"That you read everything I post. Does it ever frustrate you?"

"What? Your posts?"

"No. What I say about you." He closes his laptop and places it on the coffee table,

"Not at all. I probably deserve most of it. Except for some of it. Yes. It does."

"And you never told me?"

"Why should I concern you with my petty remarks and corrections on my character? You wouldn't change it any way."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." There is a pregnant pause before I remark, "I don't have anything in. Should I order Chinese?" Sherlock shakes his head,

"No. I'll call a cab and we can go out for dinner. There is this new place I've been meaning to try. And it ties in well with something Lestrade asked me to look into." Right. Of course. Sherlock never does anything without a purpose behind it. Ever. I muse for a moment before he gets up and pulls his coat on before following in suit. One good thing about living with Sherlock is that I'm never bored. Ever.


	21. Texts for Help

John?

SH

What Sherlock?

What?

JW

Are you at work?

SH

Where else would I be?

JW

Ah.

SH

What?

JW

When do you get home today?

SH

I should be in around two today.

Why?

JW

Bored.

SH

God.

Sherlock.

Can't you find something to do?

JW

John, I rather think the point of being bored is that you can't find anything to do.

SH

Well I'm busy. Find something to do.

Watch crap telly or something.

JW

John. I'll be out when you get back.

SH

This is relevant, how?

JW

There is something in your bed.

I'd really like it if you don't touch it.

SH

Oh God.

Tell me you didn't put a dead body in there.

JW

I didn't.

SH

Good.

Where will you be?

JW

It's a leg.

I'll be out.

SH

GOD SHERLOCK!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

JW

Many things apparently.

SH

GET IT OUT RIGHT NOW!

JW

Can't.

Not in right now.

SH

What?

Where are you?

JW

Not sure.

I think Mycroft has something to do with it.

SH

What do you mean?

JW

I've been kidnapped.

SH

WHAT?

How?

You never leave the flat.

JW

My point exactly.

SH

That doesn't even make sense.

JW

Yes it does.

Can you get some milk when you get home?

SH

No it doesn't.

I just bought milk yesterday.

JW

It's all gone.

SH

I'm not talking to you about milk anymore.

How are you going to get home?

JW

Fine.

I'm thinking of picking the lock when he leaves.

SH

Who?

JW

The guard.

I think Mycroft wants to talk to me.

SH

So he kidnaps you?

JW

Only because I won't talk to him.

SH

What?

JW

I never talk to him.

SH

Why not?

JW

He's dull.

SH

That's not an excuse.

JW

Yes it is.

SH

I can't talk anymore Sherlock.

I've got work.

JW

We aren't talking.

We're texting and you better not stop.

SH

Why not?

Give me one good reason.

JW

I need the distraction.

SH

For what?

JW

Good.

SH

What does that even mean?

JW

Nothing.

Looks like I will be home when you get there.

SH

What did you do?

JW

Never mind.

Damn my brother.

SH

What did he do?

JW

Let me escape so he could capture me again.

SH

You make it sound like a game.

JW

It kind of is.

SH

That's it.

Not texting you anymore.

I've got work to do.

JW

Fine John.

Fine.

Don't need your help anyway.

SH

What did you do now?

JW

Nothing.

SH

Tell me right now.

JW

I'm locked in a warehouse.

SH

WHAT?

JW

I'm locked in a warehouse.

I can't pick the lock.

It's German.

Always have a problem with those.

SH

Tell me where you are.

I'll come get you.

JW

No you won't.

SH

Your right.

I'll send Lestrade.

JW

No.

Don't send him.

SH

Why?

JW

He's dull.

SH

That's your only reason?

JW

Yes.

SH

You are amazing.

JW

Is that flattery?

SH

No.

JW

You're not going to help then?

SH

Maybe if you told me where you are I would.

JW

I don't know where I am.

SH

WHAT?

JW

Mycroft drugged me.

SH

Really?

JW

Don't underestimate him.

SH

I don't.

JW

Yes you do.

Everyone does.

SH

Okay Sherlock

JW

So.

You're just going to let me sit here until Mycroft comes to see me?

SH

There's nothing I can do Sherlock

JW

Fine.

SH

I'm serious.

JW

I know.

SH

Sorry.

JW

Right.

SH

I'll come get you around two okay?

JW

Okay.

SH

_Author's Note: Hey guys. I'm trying this out. I don't know if I like it or not. Care to share your thoughts on the matter? Right. Almost Christmas. Snow on the ground... Or it was. Tell me what you think please? I had fun. I was bored. So so so so bored. Everything was dull. So I had an epiphany. And this is the child that was born from my boredum. Thank you everyone._

_Time Lord Victorious_


	22. A Spot of Trouble

_Sherlock Age: 29_

Sherlock races down the hall, silently cursing his brother. Trust him to get mixed up in political scandal and need Sherlock to go and get him. Sharply turning a black tile corner he skids to a stop outside of the dark wooden door. He frantically tries the handle in vain. Of course it's locked. German. Shit. He can't do German locks. They always give him trouble. It was as if someone knew he was coming to get Mycroft. He dashed across the hall and stared at the wood a moment before sprinting back across and hitting the door at full speed with his shoulder. Leaping back he swore loudly before jamming his shoulder into the hard wood again. The door sprang free and Sherlock nearly tumbled over himself into the room. Men with black masks and guns turned away from the chair in which Mycroft was bound and gagged, aimed their guns at an unbalanced Sherlock, ready to fire. Without a word Sherlock bounded forward and in quick succession knocked the guns out of their hands. With a cry of pain and shock, Sherlock stumbles back while gripping his jaw, someone had just slugged him, hard. The second man in the mask took advantage of this moment and gabbed Sherlock's arms, pinning them behind his back, leaving him defenseless. The first man punches him in the stomach, sending the air whooshing out of Sherlock's lungs in a loud 'oof'. Another punch to the jaw sent his head whipping to the right side. Sherlock faced the man who had hit him and looked him in the eye. He took a deep breath and spit in his eyes, blood spewing from his mouth. It caught the man by surprise and he stumbled backward. The other man holding Sherlock loosened his grip, barely, but it was enough, and Sherlock shook himself free. Swinging around he sent a flying kick to the man's diaphragm and he collapsed. Spinning on his heel he caught the man, who had just wiped Sherlock's blood from his eyes, in the jaw with a reassuring crack. Fractured. He then clapped his hands to the man's ears loudly. Discombobulated. The man tried to punch him but couldn't see or quite get a grasp on reality and Sherlock easily blocked it, attacking the ribs, cracking three of them. The man stumbled backward as if to ward him off, but Sherlock was just getting started. He hit the man again in the jaw, dislocating it entirely. The man was groaning now. Might as well finish him. A heel kick to the diaphragm sends the man flying and he collapses, just like the other one.

Sherlock turns to his brother who is tied up in the chair a gag in his mouth, but without a doubt, a smile on his face. He is brimming with questions when Sherlock starts to untie his ropes. How did you find me? Where did you learn that? I've never taught you that Sherlock. Who were those guys? Couldn't you have been a bit faster? Seriously, weren't you a boyscout? Don't you know how to untie those knots? Really Sherlock, this is crazy. I think they drugged me. Do you think they drugged me? And many, many more. Sherlock doesn't say anything, and when Mycroft is free he turns and walks away, his coat flaring out behind him. Mycroft sat there stunned for a moment, thinking about what had just happened. His brother saved him and then left. He's not a hero, he could never be. He's just a good man. In a spot of trouble he's great. He ponders a moment on why Sherlock came to help him. Could it be that Sherlock has a heart? Highly doubtful. Lestrade probably told him that he hadn't shown up at elections. Sherlock knew automatically. Even though Mycroft has him under supervision, Sherlock must have a way of keeping track of his elder brother. It's only logical. Sherlock doesn't care about him, he just feels like it's good to have him close by, in case of... well who really knows? Only the mind of Sherlock Holmes can solve that puzzle.

Sherlock sat on the roof of a building not too far away, the crisp fall air ruffling his hair and cooling his cheeks. Why had he just done that? Lestrade told him his brother was missing, brotherly duty drove him to find him? Is that what happened? Somehow Sherlock didn't think so. Maybe he really does need someone, someone to make him feel again. He shudders, not from cold, but from the thought that he might need someone. That someone would, under no circumstances, be his brother. That just wouldn't do, no. He needs someone. He won't admit it, but deep down inside he feels it. And it's a new, foreign feeling for him. He's used to being on his own, but what does it matter? He's fine where he is right now. He even has a small rented room, one that he can barely afford. Maybe he could get a flat mate. Another shudder. No one in their right minds would share a flat with him. Ever. He would kick them out long before they go the chance. No. He was happy where he was. He didn't need anyone, he's fine, and everything is fine, and it always would be. Mycroft found him and was standing next to him, it was as if he wanted to thank him for saving him from horrible government people that would ruin his career, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was watching the sunset and the moon rise. New night. He stood and walked away, without acknowledging Mycroft and slunk around town. Looking for a spot of trouble that would entertain him, make it so he isn't bored anymore. He'd do almost anything to not be bored. His phone buzzed. It was Lestrade. He smiled before putting the phone to his ear,

"Sherlock Holmes."


	23. The Things You Deal With

_John_

The troubled dreams of war and death fill my head, sending images of blood and pain. Screams and shouts. I see myself get shot again, feel the pain racing through me, and cry out, hoping that someone will find me. Too much blood. Everywhere. It's not going to work. Never works. I grip the sheets and wake with a start. I sink back into my bed's sweat drenched sheets, feeling relieved that it was just a dream, I wouldn't have to deal with that stuff anymore, no more death of friends, no more pain and suffering. I am safe in 221B Baker Street, and my friend is down stairs, probably awake. My breath comes in gallons, and I'm having trouble breathing, I can feel my heart beat pounding through my chest, but slowly I gain my breath and my normal heart rate back. I take a deep breath before stretching out again, reaching with my feet for the other end of the bed. Something stops them right before I can feel the cool reassuring wood. My eyes fly open and I sit up. Sherlock is sitting at the end of my bed, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs.

"BLOODY HELL!" I shout at the top of my lungs. Sherlock doesn't even look at me. "What the Hell are you doing on my bed Holmes! That's not even right!" He blinks slowly and turns to look at me.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull away again. You wouldn't happen to know where it is would you?" He sounds so melancholy and lost, I can't help but smile a little.

"Sherlock. Get out." He sighs loudly before unfolding himself. He doesn't move after that, and is just sitting there, looking at me. "What time is it?"

"Two thirty. I need someone to talk to. I have this amazing discovery that Yorik would love to hear about. Are you sure that you don't know where he is?" Without another word I give him a shove with my feet and he topples off the bed, landing with a thump on the floor. "I'll take that as a no then."

"TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING!" I roar, feeling like maybe it was a bit much to shout at him, but that it was also totally necessary. Fifth time this week.

"Yes John. Two thirty in the morning." He paused, still on the floor before an exclamation of surprise and happiness springs from his lips. "YORIK!" Triumphantly he straightens up with his skull in his hands and a huge grin on his face, "Found you. At last. When did Mrs. Hudson put you up here? That nasty old lady." he cooed. I roll my eyes and flop back onto my bed,

"Now will you leave me alone?" Sherlock nods and quietly closes the door behind him. I sigh, relieved, get the pest out and then you get some sleep. I snuggle up into my sheets, pulling them tight around me, making a sort of cocoon. Closing my eyes, I try to lull myself to sleep, thinking of sheep jumping over a fence. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six...Seven...Eight...Nine. That's as far as I get before a loud bang and a shout stirs me. Sherlock. I through my covers off my bed and race down stairs, what the Hell has he done now? Throwing open the door I find him on the floor next to the couch. He looks up at me a moment before grinning,

"I missed the couch." I rub my eyes before looking at him again,

"What does that even mean?"

"Missed the couch, hit the table. Cracked a couple ribs I think." He takes a deep breath that ends with a shout of pain, "Yup. Definitely cracked ribs." Solemnly I shake my head,

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Make me better?" I sigh,

"It's two in the morning, there really is nothing I can do. You don't even have a First Aid kit." He nods,

"Take my card, pop down to the pharmacy and get the stuff you need. Despite what you may think, this really does hurt. Quite a lot actually."

"Sherlock. It's two thirty in the morning."

"Your point?"

"No sane person is awake at this time." He ponders that for a minute,

"You're up, and the pharmacy, I know this for a fact, I used to go down there all the time, is open twenty four hours a day. That means they are open, right now." I sighed again, Sherlock is not going to guilt trip me into going. Yes he is. And it's working.

"How did you even manage to crack your ribs?" I ask, his smile fades a little,

"I tripped, missed the couch, landed on the coffee table, cracked my ribs. Obvious." I sigh once more before pulling my coat on. "Thanks John." I don't say anything before I tug my shoes on and go out the door.

_Four in the Morning_

I pull open the door quietly, hoping that Sherlock might be asleep so that I can get some sleep before having to tape up his ribs. No such luck. Before the door is even halfway open Sherlock pulls me in and closes the door.

"Make me better now." He demands. I shrug my off my coat and slip out of my shoes before putting the bag on the coffee table.

"Which ones are cracked?" I ask. How on Earth did he survive without a doctor? Really? How can one trip and fall, crack their ribs and not be able to tape them up themselves? He lifts up his shirt to show me the blue and purple bruises. I sigh before unwrapping the tape, "Take it off. After I'm done I'm going to bed. No questions, no more talking. I'm sleeping." He nods before pulling the shirt all the way over his head. "Sit," and he takes a seat on the couch, "This is going to hurt, but I don't want any noise out of you. You have no idea how pissed off I am right now."

"Yes I do." I don't say anything but start to wrap the tape around his chest, one above the cracked ribs, one under the cracked ribs. He draws in a sharp breath and I smile a little, pay back. Really. He shouldn't be so stupid. I snip the tape when I'm finished, and throw his shirt in his face.

"Thank you."

"You're going to want to take a deep breath every hour or so, it prevents pneumonia. It's going to hurt for a while, it takes about six weeks for cracked ribs to heal. Good night." I trudge slowly up the stairs and collapse into my bed. The things I put up with.


	24. Say No

_Mycroft Age: 17_

"No Sherlock, I'm not going to go build a snow man with you. I've got loads of homework and things that I need to do before I go back to school tomorrow. If you were smart, you'd be doing the same." Sherlock hung his head, looking pathetic. It almost melted my resolve, almost. "Don't you have any friends that you could go play with?" He sniffled a little bit before replying,

"No one at school likes me. They think I'm a freak. I don't have any friends Mycroft." He paused before looking up at me with huge eyes and a pleading expression, "Please won't you come play in the snow with me?" It's so hard to say no to that expression. It's like a lost puppy begging you to take it in, but you know you can't. It hurts just as much.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. Go find something else to do." He hung his head again and slunk away, and for one moment I felt like calling him back and telling him that he was more important than bits of paper and grades. I let him go though. Without a doubt he will find some way to wreak vengeance on me for not being a good elder brother. I flick through the biology book again. It's rubbish, I already know everything in the book, yet the teachers insist that my knowledge is inferior to theirs and that I am just a child and cannot possibly know more on the subject then themselves. It really does show how corrupt the school system is. I close the book with a snap and turn the page of my study guide, swiftly filling in the answers. A cool draft forms around me feet and look down to see snow flakes swirling about my feet. Only one reason that snow would be in the house. I stood up and headed for the back door, "SHERLOCK!" I holler into the white air. I follow the footprints in the otherwise untouched snow with my eyes, he is so going to pay for this. Mummy and dad leave on a date for two hours and already he feels the need to run off and get me into trouble. Maybe it wouldn't have been such a bad idea to go play with him. I pull my boots on and wrap a scarf around my neck before going outside. My coat was left on the banister considering I'm just going to go get him. I pull the door shut behind me and follow his footprints. I find a little pile of snow formed into a sort of nook. Where is Sherlock? Obvious. I kick the snow pile and expect to kick his backside. Already I'm shivering and I just put my foot through pure snow. The neighborhood is quiet. I shouldn't worry so much, but Sherlock is out here, by himself, in the snow. I'm supposed to look after him. I promised mummy. "SHERLOCK!" I holler once more, hearing my words bounce off the walls of the houses around and come echoing back to me. Silence. I swear loudly before stomping through the little pile of snow, making absolutely sure that he isn't in there, "SHIT! I am so dead. So dead. Sherlock's missing and it's all my fault. Stupid stupid Mycroft. He only wanted to play in the snow with you, but OH NO! You have far more important things then your little brother! Shit."

"Mummy said you weren't supposed to say those kinds of words Mycroft." I spin around to see Sherlock in the snow behind me, hair caked with snow and his hands turning red. He smiles at me, one of those mischievous smiles before spinning around and taking off toward the house. I swear loudly again as the full idea of the trap encloses my mind. I chase after him, he's only ten! I can beat him to the house, he will NOT lock me out, not this time. I come so close that I can nearly grab his coat, I stretch my fingers out and grab air. The door closes on my face and I run straight into it, ramming my face into the window. I see his grinning face as he turns the key in the lock and I try in vain to pull open the door. It's so cold, I can actually feel it now. It's odd, considering that I hadn't really felt it before, but now I can feel the biting cold as it creeps under the thin cotton of my short sleeve shirt. I shiver before wrapping my arms about my chest.

"SHERLOCK!" I bellow once more in vain. He shake his head ruefully and turns and walks away, no doubt to lock the front door. He's going to leave me out here to freeze. Cheeky bugger. And my phone is on the table. He was at a really great advantage, and it should figure, I taught him. I softly hit my head against the door in exasperation. Gotta love the kid. Knowing that I'm going to regret choosing to do so, I wipe the snow from the first step and take a seat, sitting on my hands to keep them warm. Mummy and dad should be home soon. Of course I am going to get in trouble for letting Sherlock run loose in the house, but I'll take the blame. I always do for him. He's worth it. I don't want him to turn out like father. He's a bastard. Every night he and mummy get in a fight, they try to hide it from me, but I know better. I hear them. I know Sherlock hears them too. Sometimes he comes into my room and takes up half the bed to block out their fighting. I let him too. He needs it. I sit there on the step, waiting, thinking, brooding. I feel like a git. I just can't seem to say no when it doesn't really matter, but when something important, like spending time with him, comes up I can't do anything but say no. I know I shouldn't, but it's hard not too. Say no I mean.


	25. Bang Bang Who's Dead?

_John_

BANG! My heart nearly stops as I jump about a foot out of my bed, flinging my bed clothes all over the floor. I pelt downstairs to find Sherlock lying on the couch pointing that same gun at the wall again, BANG! Another hole appears sending dust and drywall tumbling down to the floor. He seems to notice me so he holds out the gun, waiting for me to take it from him. I oblige and empty the bullets into my hand. Stuffing them in my pocket I put the gun on the coffee table and look questioningly at Sherlock, he hardly looks up,

"Bored."

"Well yes. What about that case with the dead man and his wife's jewels that have gone missing?" He looks at me like I'm stupid before staring at the ceiling again,

"It was the dog who ate the jewels and the wife who killed her husband in a fit of rage. Obvious." I sigh. A bored Sherlock is one not to be trifled with,

"Oh come on Sherlock, there has got to be something."

"Bored."

"Sherlock. Call Lestrade? He's bound to have something."

"Dull."

"Well if you don't get up off your arse, then nothing is going to happen." A sigh. He leans back against the couch arm and closes his eyes,

"Bored." I sigh loudly, there is no reasoning with him when he's like this. I need something to entertain him. The nicotine patches ran out yesterday when he was bored. Again. I'll just pop to the grocery then, pick something up, something that would make him feel better.

"I'm going out. Need anything?" He doesn't say anything but curls up and sticks his face in the cushions. I trudge up to my room again and get dressed. I take one last look at him on the couch before taking my coat and locking the door behind me.

_Sherlock_

My phone buzzes, I can hear it on the coffee table. Angst. Reluctantly I twist my arm out of comfort of my fetal position and grab it. Holding the phone in front of my face I read,

_Have you killed yourself yet?_

_JW _

I don't smile, that's not even remotely funny. John really shouldn't have left me here by myself. It's not polite,

_No. _

_Piss off._

_Don't need you here anyway._

_SH_

Maybe it was a bit harsh, maybe but it didn't seem to phase John because a moment later I get a reply.

_How many boxes of nicotine patches should I get?_

_JW _

I sigh, he is hopeless. Does he really need me to tell him how many boxes he needs to buy? He does the shopping, he should know already what I need, how much I need, and when I need it by. There really is no point in asking me.

_Go with gut instinct._

_Child._

_SH_

_How do you react to sugar?_

_JW_

I don't even understand the basis of this question. What could he possibly be thinking? I don't eat, at least not much, and when I do John isn't around. How to answer this question? Obvious,

…

_SH_

_What is that supposed to mean?_

_JW_

…

_SH_

_Real mature Sherlock. _

_JW_

…

_When are you going to be home?_

_Have you left yet?_

_SH_

_No. _

_Why?_

_Thought of something?_

_JW_

_Possibly._

_Could you see if you can get pickled eggs?_

_SH_

_Why do you need pickled eggs?_

_What could you possibly need them for?_

_JW_

_Not sure yet. _

_Yorik says I should get some though. _

_Full of vinegar._

_Useful?_

_SH_

_You are amazing._

_Yorik said this?_

_Fine._

_I'll get your damn eggs._

_Home in a bit._

_Don't kill yourself._

_JW_

…

_SH_

I close my phone, he better get me my eggs. I can easily find a use for them, dump them on his head? That is a good idea. I like to watch him squirm.

"Yorik?" I ask, throwing my voice across the room toward the mantle where Yorik dutifully stared at me from, "You'll never leave will you? Thought not. I can always count on you. That's why I like you. You don't talk back, and I can insult you all I want and you won't go storming out of the flat. I like you better then normal people." I stand up and walk across the coffee table to reach the mantle. Picking up Yorik in one hand and pulling my robe around me with the other, I gaze into the empty eye sockets. "You'll always be here for me. Normal people go and do stupid things like die, or get boring, or leave for no reason, but you? You just sit here and let me talk to you. We converse, it's quite refreshing." I sit back down on the sofa, "Thanks my friend. Well I say friend..." The door opens and John walks in, arms laden with the shopping. Nervous buyer?

"You can at least help me Sherlock."

"Glad we had this conversation Yorik, you have opened my eyes." I hold my hand out for my eggs, probably best to taste them first, make sure they are good enough to dump on poor defenseless John's head. With a sigh he sets the bags on the floor and rummages through them. Pulling out a jar he hands it to me. Pickled eggs. I set Yorik down on the table before twisting the metal lid off. Without a word, John watches me as I dip my fingers in and grasp a slick egg. They smell really bad, and I say that loosely. I ponder for a moment, testing the softness of the egg, if I should actually put it in my mouth. Probably not. The egg had barely touched my tongue when the most horrible taste floods my senses, a taste that I can not even begin to describe. I retch and fling the egg across the room.

"That really is something foul. Well you could have told me Yorik. That wasn't very nice. Oh so you want to watch me squirm? You think it's funny do you? Well you have no room to talk about my skinniness, you have no body!" I fume slightly, screwing my face up. Cheeky bugger. Yorik really shouldn't talk about me like that. Now John's laughing at me. Stupid mundane. Went to the supermarket. Bought food. The world is not a kind place sometimes. Without another word I stand up and waltz over to John. I tip to jar over his head, drop it on the floor and walk away, a smile on my face. Boredom cured, at least for a while. I enter my room and sit down on my bed before bursting out in peals of laughter. John is going to hate me for weeks. Oh wait. Yorik? Shit. He's on the coffee table. I can't go out there now, John will probably beat me into a pulp.

_John_

I stand there in shock for a moment, a rank smell radiating off me, coming from the eggs that Sherlock dumped on me. Was that really necessary? I mean really? Oh and look, he's left Yorik out here to face my wrath. Of course. I need a shower. My own stench is making me gag. Maybe I should just stick to letting him blow holes in the walls.

I get out of the shower and grab a towel, rubbing my hair dry. I don't even glance at the misted over mirror before wrapping it around myself and leaving the bathroom, at least I don't stink anymore. I root through my pockets and pull out the ammunition I had taken from Sherlock's gun and reload it. I pick up Yorik from the coffee table and walk quietly over to his room, stepping over the creaky floor boards. I don't knock, just push the door open. I lay the two items on his bedside table,

"I think you'll be needing these."

All he needs is another case and then he'll be fine. It's probably best to avoid him when he's like this so that's what I'm going to do. I get my jacket again and don't even bother to text Sarah, without a doubt she's free, and even if she wasn't she wouldn't say anything. Leave the poor man alone, let him shoot holes in the wall. Before I am even out the door I hear another BANG. And then from inside of his room comes,

"Sherlock Holmes. Please tell me I have a case."


	26. A Drunken Debt

"I COULD HAVE SPREAD MY WINGS AND DONE A THOUSAND THINGS THAT HAVE NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE!" Sherlock stumbles up the stairs after another belting verse of the song, completely off key, the bottle of whiskey in his hand slips from his fingers and falls to the floor with a clatter, spewing the last couple of drops onto the floor. He falls against the door and wipes his mouth, involuntary drunkenness wasn't how he say spending his evening, not that he cared much anymore. He pushes the door open and nearly falls on top of himself as it eases open. John starts on the couch and looks at him, analyzing where he's been.

"Was that you on the stair just now?" Sherlock doesn't say anything and just nods,

"Help me John." John rolls his eyes and just looks down at his book again before replying,

"You aren't dying are you?"

"No. At least I hope not. Can you die from drinking a whole bottle of whiskey in one sitting?" John looks up in surprise,

"A WHOLE BOTTLE OF WHISKEY?" Sherlock nods again, "Why would you do such a thing? Don't you know how bad of a hang over you're going to have tomorrow? Don't you realize how much damage you've done to yourself? Why Sherlock? Why? That was really selfish! Why did you drink the WHOLE bottle of whiskey?" Sherlock shakes his head,

"It wasn't my fault." He swallows hard, "I didn't have a choice in the matter." He leans back and closes the door with a snap before sinking to the floor.

"What the Hell are you talking about? Of course you had a choice!" Sherlock shakes his head again before leaning it against the door,

"It's Donnovan, she has it in for me. So does everyone at the station. They kept handing me things, glasses with whiskey in them, I asked for the bottle to examine it and maybe bring some back for you, next thing you know, they're pouring it down my throat, calling it a game." John grins widely but still doesn't look up. Idly he turns the page before saying,

"You're right, that isn't voluntary at all. Sorry Sherlock." Sherlock starts laughing hysterically, the drink has clearly gone to his head,

"What? That's it? You don't have anything to stop me from feeling like an idiot?" John laughs, spreading a look of confusion across Sherlock's face.

"What I have, you wouldn't like." Sherlock pulls himself to his feet and turns his back to John,

"Surprise trust fall!" He falls backward landing across his knees, looking John in the face,

"John, honestly, you have got to help me. Did you see what I did just there?" He rolls off of John's lap and onto the floor groaning when his face hit the hard surface. After an exclamation of surprise and excitement he calls up to John, "You have got to come down here and look at this floor! It's positively filthy! Don't you clean this place John? You're always hiding my stuff." John nudges Sherlock with his foot,

"Get up old man. No use lying around. While you're drunk why don't you go and do something amazing, something spontaneous, something you'll forget by tomorrow morning." Sherlock sits up quickly and looks John in the face,

"That is, my friend, a grand idea!... What shall I do?" John racks his brains a minute, screwing his face up in a look of thought,

"Do you play the piano?" Sherlock thinks about this for a moment,

"Not well."

"Then I have it. Mrs. Hudson brought in a piano not to long ago, it's still downstairs actually. Go play on that, and sing as loud as you want, then when they finally get you to leave, come up here and I'll have something waiting for you." Sherlock's eyes light up,

"That's brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're drunk."

"That is a point." Sherlock stood up and dusts himself off and makes to the door. Before he can reach for the handle he turns to John,

"John?"

"What?"

"I didn't do anything too stupid did I?"

"What?"

"Did I do something stupid?"

"How should I know, you just came in." Sherlock nods before he crumples to the floor in a heap, the alcohol finally shutting him down. Lucky for John he hadn't been with him the entire time he was drunk. John sighs loudly and gathers his friend's skinny body in his arms and takes him to his room where he pulls the blinds down and turns the lights out. After tucking him up in bed he gets a glass of water and a bottle of Advil and sets them on his bedside table. Just what the doctor ordered. He settles himself down in his usual armchair and flicks on the telly. He watches the news, and it isn't too long before something turns up talking about a man who was so drunk that he could tie his shoes and but had managed to expose the manager of a big bank for being a fraud and a cheat. John sighed, and turned the telly off, Sherlock was not going to hear anything about this tomorrow. He picked up his book and started reading some more. Sherlock owes him big time now. A drunken debt it would seem.


	27. Misstep

_Sherlock_

"Sherlock?" I am aroused from my thoughts. What the Hell? John? When did he get back?

"Hm?"

"You haven't set foot outside since the ice storm." I look up at John who had entered the flat without my awareness. Odd. How is that even possible?

"Quite right."

"You haven't answered your phone when Lestrade called, you haven't even touched your email."

"Right. You're point?"

"What are you not telling me?" I smile before replying,

"Many things John." He shakes his head,

"No, about the ice." He can never know about the ice, quickly I screw my face into a look of confusion,

"What about the ice?"

"There is something you aren't telling me about the ice." I suck in a lungful of air quickly and quietly,

"That's a story for another time my friend." John just won't leave it alone, how mundane.

"Do you not like the ice?"

"John, I said it doesn't matter."

"Sherlock." He says my name, one word, but in such a way that it's commanding me to tell him about how much I hate ice, how much it scares me. I lean back in my chair and look into the fireplace...

_Sherlock Age: 23_

_I race down the hall way and out the door onto the icy step, losing my footing for one moment and going sprawling across the sheet of ice that covers the driveway and sidewalk, encasing everything. _

"_SHIT!" I cry out as I try to regain my footing, almost in vain. I glance over my shoulder before walking as quickly as I dared down the street, careful of the ice. A shout. I turn only to see Mycroft go flying across the ice. I don't have time to react, he comes straight for me, knocking my legs out from under me. I fall with a loud crack on the ice, hitting my nose and feeling a crunch. Warm blood oozes from my nose and down my face, I can taste it on my lips, see it turning orange on the ice. "SHIT MYCROFT! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I shout as I again try to find my footing on the slick, smooth surface. Furiously I wipe at my nose, there is going to be a bruise tomorrow morning, at least it's not broken. Mycroft falls back against the ice, going limp, his eyes are closed, something is wrong, something isn't right. Blood still flowing from my nose I slide over to him, he doesn't wake when I shake him, he's hit his head. Oh God. There's a bruise, blood. Shit. I pull him onto my lap before checking his pulse, faint, but there. Oh God. Oh God. Someone, anyone, help me! "ANYONE? HELP!" I call out, my voice shaking and rebounding against the houses. I lean over him and start to talk to him, even though I know he can't hear me, "Mycroft, oh God. Mycroft, you have to wake up now. You can't just... No you can't just die right here." I can feel his blood soaking through my pant leg, "Mycroft, oh God. Shit. We're going to get you some help, somewhere. Oh God. This is all my fault, if I hadn't pissed you off you wouldn't have been chasing me out of the house. Oh God. What if you can never forgive me? What if you're going to be different forever. Oh God," I raise my head and call out again, "SOMEONE! COME HELP ME HERE!" Tears are falling down my cheeks, mixing with my blood. I wipe my nose again before succumbing to the noisy sobs that I swore no one would ever witness. "Oh God." I moaned, feeling like if he died right now it would be all my fault, I would have killed the only person who cared about me right now. Mummy would never forgive me. I had worked so hard to put any feeling, any form of caring for anyone, away, in a box, out of sight forever. Now when something like this happens they feel the need to come out and make me look and feel like a fool. I wipe my eyes before sticking my hand in my jacket pocket to get my phone I steady my voice before dialing nine-nine-nine. The ambulance arrives ten minutes later and ask for details that I am unwilling to give. I stand up as they take my brother to the hospital and I go into the house. I pack a couple of bags and leave a note to Mycroft telling him where I've gone. Letting him know how sorry I am for getting him hurt and how I don't feel like it's safe anymore for me to be around him. I leave and start to look for somewhere to live when my phone buzzes,_

_I'm sorry Sherlock._

_MH_

_I sigh, of course, after only a couple hours after I leave he wants me back, typical, _

_I know._

_SH_

_Come home?_

_MH_

_Sorry brother. _

_I can't._

_SH_

_What are you going to do?_

_MH_

_I'll think of something._

_SH_

_I never want to see his face again, thus begins the rivalry of Mycroft and myself. _

I finish the memory and look at John one last time,

"No I don't. I hate it." John smiles like it's a joke,

"You going to tell me that story?"

"No." He looks surprised but understands that it's probably better to let me brood and mope around until the snow and ice melt. Smart man. He goes to his room, leaving me sitting in front of the fire. I think about all the things that have happened since that fateful day, how maybe I should forgive Mycroft, but that means I have to forgive myself first. I can never do that. Never. I'm not wired that way. I sigh and stare into the embers, feeling useless and bored. I get a text message,

I still don't blame you Sherlock.

MH

I know.

SH


	28. Cat Nap

_Sherlock_

I stare into the eyes of the cat on the doorstep. It's amber eyes stood out against its black short hair, it cocked its head to the side and looked at me as if wondering if I was going to let it in. Of course not. I look at it and with a clear voice,

"No. Go away." The cat took my answer the wrong way and stood up, slinking past me into the flat. Mrs. Hudson isn't going to like this. I turn and pick the cat up around the middle and set it outside, "Stay outside. You can't come in." Again it brushed past me, and waltzed into my flat, evading every attempt of mine to set it back outside. Exasperated I throw my hands in the air, "FINE!" I kick at it before closing the door. Cats. No one can control them. I sit on the couch again before looking at it in the eyes again, "Once condition, you leave my stuff alone, don't touch anything." It stared back at me and mewed as if to say it understands. It jumps up on my lap and I push it to the ground, "Stay off. Go bug John or something." I pick up my book off the coffee table and start to read it. Silly cat, shouldn't even be here, why is it here. It roams around the floor, prancing around my peripheral vision. I roll my eyes and continue reading, stupid cat. The weight of the couch shifts and I look up, the cat sits down at my stockinged feet. I nudge it with my foot, "Get out of here. I don't want you." It just looks at me before curling around my toes, "Oh bugger it all." I sigh and continue to read my book, dull. It's so predictable, all the characters are way to mundane and predictable. I sigh loudly and through the book across the room. Bored. I look down at the cat and pull it into my lap, brooding. I scratch behind it's ears, feeling suddenly tired. I stretch out my arms and sigh again. Stuffing a pillow behind my head and close my eyes, feeling my breathing get shallow and the lump on my stomach purring. I shift a little bit and allow myself to sink into sleep.

_John_

Sherlock hasn't said anything for a long time, that probably means something bad has happened. Quietly I sneak downstairs to try and catch him in the act of doing something ridiculous. I ease open the door and slide in without a sound. The sight that meets my eyes is astonishing, Sherlock Holmes, on the couch, with a cat, sleeping. It was so odd that I made a noise in my throat, one of suppressed shock. The cat's amber eyes open into little slits as it looks at me, putting a paw protectively over Sherlock's chest. AWE! It's so cute and cuddly, and Sherlock is sleeping with a cat on his stomach. The picture is just adorable, a cat in our flat. I want to go up and ruffle Sherlock's hair, but I know that if I do I won't hear the end of it for weeks on end. Quietly I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a picture, the cat shakes it's head before laying back down completely, as if deeming me, NOT a threat. I put my phone in my pocket before slinking into the kitchen to make myself a cuppa. I'm seeing Sarah tonight, we're going to the cinema. I sigh as the water starts to boil and take a seat, opening the paper to see the latest news. Nothing, as usual. Only the really interesting news has Sherlock Holmes in the article somewhere, exclaiming that he did this and this and exposed this person for this crime and was really wonderful at this crime scene for this and this reason. I pull my laptop out and open my blog. Might as well write a new entry while all is quiet. I start to type out our latest case giving thoughts and details, careful to avoid calling it an adventure. Sherlock stirs a little bit on the couch, mumbling before taking a deep breath and falling deeper into sleep. It's probably a good thing for him. From the looks of it, he hasn't slept in days, or eaten for that matter. I fill my mug and sit down again, pulling out my phone and calling in. He won't eat when I'm around, but tonight I'm going out so maybe he'll finally eat something. I sigh and lean back in my chair and just look at him a moment before getting ready to leave.

"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes. I'll be in later. I know you can hear me, but just so you know, that is really adorable." I let the door bang behind me before stepping into the swirling snow and blistering wind to hail a cab and go get Sarah.

_Sherlock_

The banging of the door wakes me from my nap and I shift to get more comfortable on the couch, repositioning a protesting cat to make it more comfortable. The doorbell rings and forces me to get up. At the door is a delivery boy, only one person could have sent that, John. Where is John? I call up the stairs, no answer, shrugging my shoulders I pay the guy and sit down on the couch again. The cat immediately jumps onto my lap, again. I sigh,

"You know that it's only for today right? And tomorrow morning you are back out in the streets, and don't you think you're getting any sympathy from me, because you won't." I dig in, knowing full well that this is what John expected, he's out with Sarah no doubt. All for the best I presume. I stand up, pushing the cat to the floor, time to go to Bart's. I pull my gloves on and wrap the scarf around my neck before shrugging my coat on, the cat trailing at my heels the entire time. "Well if you're going to follow me around, you might just learn something. Actually, I think I know someone who might be able to help you." Molly already has a cat, maybe she'd like this one too. I pick the little ball of fur up and hail a cab, "Bart's please." The cat snuggles up to me, rubbing it's head on my shoulder, "And you can stop that." I scold before getting out of the cab. I push open the doors to be greeted by Molly, "Happy Christmas Molly." I remark as I shove the cat into her arms. Her face lights up,

"You shouldn't have. I think I'll name him Sherlock."

"I didn't have a choice in the matter. Now, what have you got for me today?"


	29. Racing

_Sherlock Age: 25_

I sit still, surrounded by happy eating people. The dim light of the restaurant makes it harder to see my client, I lean forward to look him in the face properly.

"So what you're saying is that you need my help to prove your innocence." The man across the table from me nods, looking ashamed. I sigh before leaning back again, "I'm sorry but I can't do that." He looks up quickly, looking upset,

"What do you mean?"

"I can't prove your innocence, because you aren't innocent." He sighs and straightens his jacket,

"How could you possibly know that?"

"That wasn't part of the deal." One of his men comes up behind my chair and presses the muzzle of a gun hard into my side,

"Neither was this. I'm sorry it had to come to this Mr. Holmes, but I can't afford to go to prison right now." I sigh, of course. Why didn't I think of the possibilities of him turning on me.

"I don't think anyone can afford to go to prison. You, my friend, are no different." He chuckles at me,

"I think you'll find that I am different. I go to any length that I have to in order to save my skin, you are in my way, and are also the only man that can help me. Now, you will help me, or my friend here will take you out back and this will be the last conversation you will ever be able to have." I consider his proposition, I reflect on the promise I made to myself, do the work, stay away from criminals. It's not like I really have a choice right now. I've really gotten myself into trouble this time. My mind races quickly to try and find some way out. Got it. I look him in the face,

"I'm sorry sir, I don't think I can help you." I wince as the muzzle pushes harder into my side. The man's bristly face presses against the side of my face and he whispers in a gravely voice,

"Stand up, and don't try anything." I stand,

"Sorry this didn't work out like you were hoping." The man behind me pushes right up against my back, the gun presses against my back, urging me to walk forward. I push open the door and the man wheels me around to the back of the building and pushes me against the wall. The cool bricks dig into the back of my hands. Right. Three. Two. One. I bolt to the right, narrowly missing a bullet that lodges itself where my head had been moments before. I race down the alleyway in a zig-zag motion, just like Mycroft taught me. Shit. I don't need this right now. Shiiiiiiit. I round the corner, and nearly run into another guy with a gun. I spin around and race down another alleyway, of course, he knows me. Knew I would try to escape. I run into a chain link fence and a thought enters my head as I scramble to clear the fence. As soon as my feet hit the ground I race down the alley, turning onto a main road. I throw myself into a crowd of people and try to disappear, look normal, act like I'm just another person on the street. I glance behind me to see the two men come around the corner, I turn into a little shop and head for the toilets. I close and lock the cell, stupid idea granted, but still. I bring my feet up off the ground and look through the crack between the door and the other stall. The door to the bathroom flies open and I shrink back against the wall, trying to make myself invisible, oh bugger. They're going to find me. The kick open the bathroom stall doors, one after the other, finding mine locked they bang against it, not saying a word. I drop to the floor and slither under the gap to the stall that they had just checked, slithering all the way to the end stall. Throwing the door to that stall open I try to make it toward the bathroom door.

"OI!" One of the men shouts out and a gunshot rings out. A wave of pain enters my calf and my leg collapses underneath me,

"SHIT!" I scream before dragging my leg back up and limped as fast as I could out of the bathrooms before they could take another shot. I integrate myself into another crowd of people, trying to keep the limping down to a minimum even though every time it gets jostled just a little bit it makes me want to cry out because of the pain. Gritting my teeth against the pain I make my way down the street, feeling the blood trickling down my leg. Only one choice now, I step up to the curb and hail a cab, "Bart's Hospital." I breath before getting in the cab wincing. The cabby looks back at me,

"What happened to you mate?"

"It's a long story, I'll pay you extra if you get me there in five minutes." His eyes widen before putting his foot down. I'm done racing now, racing against the clock, the men and against myself. At least for now.


	30. The Violin

_Sherlock Age: 27_

I open my violin case and take out my favorite possession, placing it carefully and familiarly under my chin. I rosin the bow and place it over the strings before plunging into a memorized tune. A warm up to something I want to play, something new, fantastic, awe inspiring. My bow stops above the quivering strings and I close my eyes, preparing to make something new, something that was mine. I need to clear my head, and this is how I do it. It starts out slow and quite, meek and mild, but crescendos to a fast paced happy tune, clearly not what I'm thinking. I slow down, making it a sad, lonely tune, also not what I need. I grit my teeth and try a new angle, start with an up bow, end with a down bow, something mellow. My fingers curl around the neck, and I place my fingers expertly on the finger boards, changing the note when I see fit, and then, as if by magic, a song comes out. I usually play how my mood is, I play the way I feel. I play the mood, and this is how I feel, tranquil. It's been a long while since I've been able to play this tune. I breath deep, letting the familiarity of the instrument tap into my being. Relief floods my system, at least I have this. At least my music is still mine. My mind clears, I see everything, and I continue to play. It's been a long time since I've been alone with my music, since I've been able to simply let go. The door bangs open,

"HOLY SHIT!" my violin goes flying from my fingers as the noise from the door startles me from my thoughtless moment. I spin around to try and catch the fragile thing, only to find my brother holding it out to me, "MARY MOTHER OF GOD MYCROFT! Don't do that! Give me that!" I snatch my violin from him, as if to protect it from cruelty, "What the Hell do you want?" He sighs,

"That was lovely music there." Psh, as if. He just wants to butter me up so I'll do him a favor.

"What do you want?"

"I can't just come to see my brother?" I shake my head, really, after all these years, you'd think he'd have learned something.

"Obviously not. What do you need? I'm kind of busy." I take a seat, and just to spite him place my violin under my chin again,

"I need your help with a case." I sigh,

"Of course. Go no further, I'm busy."

"Sherlock, it's quick and easy."

"If it's so easy, do it yourself." I raise my bow and run it across the strings once, "I am actually on a case right now so..." Take the hint brother, take it and leave. He shakes his head,

"Sometimes I don't understand you Sherlock." I smile,

"Few rarely do. Now," I pause, "If you would be so kind as to leave, I have an appointment with my violin." I run the bow wildly over the strings, causing a ruckus that isn't pleasing at all. Notes collide in the air and wail, screeching into the night. Something bloody awful. He turns on his heel and leaves, but not before giving me a look. I stop playing and listen to his retreating foot steps until they can't be heard anymore, and then I play again. The violin and I, we are a team. We help each other, we love each other. And together, we've solved many cases. I take great care of it, my violin. It's precious to me.

_RIGHT! My readers! I'd like to thank you all for all your support and actually taking the time to read all this, I'm going to take a moment here to thank a few in particular. If you really hate these, skip them, they aren't for you, but if you think your name might be in there it really is worth a look._

_The Improbable One is brilliant. Always what I need in the mornings. Gen. You've been brilliant, know just what I need to hear. And none to fluffy either, say exactly what you mean to say, which I appreciate. Going to answer a question from one Angie, she asked me if Sherlock was wearing stockings in Cat Nap, no, they were socks. ThisIsTrueImmortality, you have been brilliant, I just want to thank you for that, and your reviews. To the amazing The Papercut Doctor, you were the only one that got that quotation, and for that I condone you. Good work fellow whovian. Rosebud in Amber, Thank you for your kind words. Now we come to my favorite, not that any of these others weren't good, but my favorite is M.G. Montecello. I felt really accomplished when I read that review, I got someone who __doesn't comment much to comment on my story. How brilliant is that? Sherlockfan was brilliant as well, sorry about the surprise trust fall mix up. Sorry. Misscruel, you are among one of my very first reviewers, feel loved because you and The Improbable One are probably the ones that got me started, feel the love. Bloodxtraitor, thank you for your input on that particular piece, I was torn. MissP2010 My first ever reviewer I think, congratulations, you win a prize of... getting a one of my drabbles dedicated to you! _

_Now that all that silly nonsense is over with, how about we get to the real reason I wrote this. Right. I'm going to end this story. I know I know, shocker. Thirty chapters. I think that's a lot. Either I'm ending on thirty, or thirty five, your choice, and then I'm writing more in a new story of the title that is being debated on currently. Maybe 'This Should Be Interesting Mark 2' and it will say is a sequel to 'This Should Be Interesting' but can stand alone, and should stand alone, or something like that. Your choice devoted readers. I love you all, you make my mornings lovely, and keep your eyes peeled for when I kill off this story and start a new one. It'll be just as brilliant as this I promise. Thoughts on everything said is surely welcome. _

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

_Time Lord Victorious  
_


	31. Libraries

_Sherlock_

I sit down in the armchair before setting the stack of books on the table. Stupid library, they don't know how to properly code and catalog their library. Books on poison, that's what I'm looking for. It's always good to have a knowledge of poison, helps you out when you need it most, oddly enough. Words are an interesting thing in my opinion. Who came up with language? Who made it acceptable to use words? Who called them words? Not really my business. I leaf through the pages of my book, John was out with Sarah again. He's been doing that more and more lately, sadly. I can't stand hanging around the flat while it's empty. I like the library, it's quiet, no petty mundane things going on much. It's beautiful, peaceful. One of the few places left on Earth I'd wager. My phone buzzes and I sigh loudly causing the man in the chair next to me to shush loudly,

"Sorry!" I whisper before pulling out my phone and checking the messages, from John. Course.

_Where are you?_

_JW_

_Out._

_SH_

_I know that._

_You aren't at the flat._

_JW_

_Obvious. _

_Aren't you out with Sarah?_

_SH_

_Not anymore._

_JW_

That stumps me. His dates usually ended with him at her house. Not tonight apparently. Interesting. Now he's texting me. Wonder what's up.

_What's wrong?_

_SH_

_Nothing._

_JW_

_Liar._

_SH _

_Where are you?_

_JW_

_The library._

_Why?_

_SH_

_No reason._

_Why are you at the library?_

_JW_

_Bored._

_Need to brush up on my poison knowledge._

_SH_

_WHAT?_

_JW_

_Never mind._

_Home soon._

_SH_

_No need._

_JW_

_What's wrong John?_

_SH_

_Nothing._

_JW_

_Whatever._

_SH_

I stand up after putting my phone away. Something is up, John just isn't sharing. Odd. I hail a cab from the front of the library,

"221B Baker Street please." The cabby nods as I get it. Only one man that could have made John feel uncomfortable like this. I pull my phone out,

_What have you done?_

_SH_

_What do you mean?_

_MH_

_You've spooked John._

_What have you done?_

_SH_

_Must have seen one of my men._

_MH_

_WHAT? _

_Do you have us under surveillance?_

_WITHOUT MY PERMISSION?_

_I hate you._

_SH_

_I know._

_MH_

_This isn't the end of this Mycroft._

_SH_

_I don't doubt it._

_MH_

What the Hell was he thinking? I mean I knew he had us under surveillance, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I mean he's tailing John on his dates. What is wrong with him? Does he have no idea of decency? Obviously not. He takes me away from my lovely evening at the library for this. I unlock the door and enter my flat to find John in his usual chair.

"What happened?" He looks up,

"Your brother is tailing us." I nod, guessed correctly then.

"Indeed."

"Ruined my date."

"Indeed. Care to come to the library with me?"

"What?" I sigh,

"You heard me. Come to the library with me. You pulled me out of a great description of the effects of a certain kind of poison, drag me home only to mope. I'd like to finish that description if you don't mind. I don't want to leave you here by yourself though. So."

"So?"

"Are you coming with me?" He stands up,

"Sure why not?" I smile, great.

"Dinner afterward?" He nods. Of course. So predictable. "Get your coat. It's nippy." I lead the way out onto the street and hail another cab. I love the library.


	32. Never Truly Alone

_Sherlock Age: 21_

I fight my way to the top of the river, taking my jacket off as I push for the surface of the water. My head breaks the surface and my hair clings to my face. Only now do I realize how cold the water is, how stupid it was for me to do this, to save myself. I pull myself onto the snow covered bank before fishing through my jacket pocket, Mycroft is always there for me. Even when no one else is. I can only hope that... Nope. I throw my phone into the snow. Broken. That's the third one this month. Shit. I squat down and fish in the murky waters for my coat, pulling it's sopping fabric from the water. I wrap it around me, though it doesn't help much. My shaking fingers search through my pockets for change, I always somehow manage to have some. I can use it to phone Mycroft. I can always count on him. I yank open the doors and lean against the plastic walls before inserting the money. I dial his number, but I can hear my teeth chattering in my skull.

"M-m-m-mycroft!"

"What Sherlock?" I bang my head against the side of the phone booth,

"I need your help." I can hear a sigh on the other end of the phone. "I'm going to die if you don't help me."

"Isn't that always the case Sherlock. Where are you?"

"Not sure."

"WHAT? What the Hell were you thinking? Calling me up?"

"It's a long story, one that I don't have the time to tell. What are you complaining about? You have control of basically every camera in the city." I slide down the wall, huddling against myself.

"Right. Hold on." There's a pause and the sound of a keyboard, hurry please Mycroft. My life really does depend on it this time. "There you are. Are you okay?" Through gritted teeth I reply,

"Does it look like I'm okay? Really Mycroft." He sighs.

"Lucky for you, one of my people are in the area. What did you do? Jump in the river?" A car drives up outside and with a relieved sigh I hang the phone up, silently praising my brother. I threw myself into the back seat, warm suddenly blowing across my body, causing me to shiver again because of the change in temperature. My body trembles, and fatigue enters my bones, my eyelids droop. No. This can't be good. Not good at all. I try in vain to stay awake, but blackness seeps in from all sides and encircles me, dragging me down and down and down.

When I wake I find myself in a warm bed. Not mine. The events of the day come rushing back, giving me a headache. Mycroft's doing no doubt. Never before in my life have I felt so alone, never. But then, there's always my brother. He's always there for me. Mycroft cares about me. Possibly the only one in the world that could ever care about me. It's not like I don't care for him, I do, just not much. I only call him up when I need his help, he always helps, but he never complains. Not ever. It's odd that he is always there for me. Never faltering. He tells me the only reason he does is because he promised mummy, but I'm not sure I buy into that. I make it a point to not get too attached to people, whenever I do they end up getting hurt. The door opens and Mycroft strides in, looking more pompous then usual.

"I want the whole story Sherlock." I sit up before shaking my head,

"It doesn't matter. Thanks for being there for me though." He nods,

"I'll be here for you."

"I know." I start to get up, feeling much better, "Thanks." He stops me before I reach the door,

"Your clothes are still wet." I nod.

"Right. Thanks. I need to finish something so I'm going to borrow your coat."

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock. You can't go. Not just yet."

"Mycroft. It's important." He nods,

"I know. I just don't want you to be by yourself." I sigh. Just like Mycroft to think that I need someone.

"I don't need anyone. I'll be fine." Mycroft sighs,

"No you won't. But I care too much about you to push the matter."

"Thanks." I take his coat from off the bed post and shrug it on before opening the door and stepping out into the swirling snow, brooding. Even if I have no one else, I have Mycroft, whether I want him or not. I don't think that's a bad thing, just an odd thing. I'm alone, but never truly alone. And that's... Good.


	33. A Kidnapping

Sherlock barely had time to register that there was as needle stuck in his arm before he slumped to the pavement, unconscious. Mycroft motioned for one of his men to pick Sherlock up and stuff him in the back seat of a waiting car. Luring Sherlock outside of the flat had been easy, tell him there is a curious murder and away he goes. That was easy. No, the hard part is trailing him without him noticing, considering he notices everything. Mycroft closes the door after adjusting Sherlock's coat so it wouldn't get caught in the door. He looks up as a shout from John rings out down the street. So it seems that Sherlock wasn't unaware that he was being followed. Quickly Mycroft slides into the car and locks all the doors before shouting at the driver to put his foot down. John was gaining on them, he could see his face, make out how mad John looked. Mycroft sighs. People these days. Honestly. He shouldn't have to kidnap his brother, just for a talk. They were leaving John in the dust when John suddenly stopped and checked his phone, a sly smile tracing over his lips. He turns down a side street and disappears from Mycroft's view. Suspecting the worst he glances over his shoulder to find Sherlock still slumped on the seats, eyes closed. No phone in sight. He smiles before facing the front again. The car pulls up in front of a house, a large one. He gets out before opening the back and getting the driver to pull his brother out from the back seats and up the driveway,

"Just leave him on the doorstep, I'll be out to get him in a minute." Mycroft starts to open the door when out of nowhere John comes hurtling through the bushes that lined the drive. Mycroft gave a little surprised shout before he was tackled by the smaller blond man and brought to the cold cement. Before Mycroft could react, John was up. Scooping Sherlock into his arms he took off down the street, cackling madly before he disappeared again around another corner. Mycroft sits up, looking confused. What the Hell just happened?

John throws Sherlock to the ground in punishment,

"You can stop pretending now." Sherlock sits up and smiles, rubbing his head where it had hit the alley wall,

"Thanks."

"Welcome. Don't mention it. EVER." Sherlock laughs before standing up and straightening his coat,

"Only if you don't put this on your blog."John laughs before walking off toward the main road.

"How did you know where he was taking you?" The two walk side by side,

"He's not as clever as he thinks he is. Obviously he was going to take me to his house, just like last time he tried this stupid thing. Why does he feel the need to talk to me at all?" John looks at him a moment,

"You ARE related right?"

"Sometimes I wonder..." John laughs,

"Well at least I got you out of there." Sherlock smiles again,

"He's totally stumped. He thinks that the entire time I was in the back seat I was unconscious, which I wasn't. Honestly, sometimes his stupidity makes me wonder. He should know that I'm more resilient then most people for obvious reasons."

"Wait you mean-?"

"Not in a long time."

"But you ha-"

"John. Drop it." He gives John a look before they turn onto Baker Street. "What time is it?" John looks up,

"Why?"

"I was supposed to do something today."

"Nearly noon. Why?" Sherlock sighs,

"We haven't missed it." John is thoroughly confused now,

"We haven't missed what?" Sherlock opens the door and holds it for John,

"We are meeting with someone today."

"..."

"Someone whom you will soon meet." Sherlock puts his coat on the banister before heading up to the flat, followed closely by John.

"Sherlock? What the Hell are you doing?" Sherlock moves his box to the floor before clearing the table and rearranging the chairs,

"My brother sure knows how to pick days to try and talk to me."

"Sherlock?" He looks up before carting another box off to his room.

"Tidying up a bit. We're having company."

"What?" John takes his usual seat,

"Someone needs my help."

"What?"

"There's been a kidnapping, I can help."

"A kidnapping?" Sherlock comes in and opens the door for a young woman of about twenty who looks terribly sad, she comes in and takes a seat,

"Thank you Mr. Holmes for helping me."

"Yes, a kidnapping. An odd one." John rolls his eyes and braces himself for the tale that will unfold before the work that is about to begin. A kidnapping indeed. A kidnapping nearly prevented this meeting.

* * *

_RIGHT! Hello again. I'm sure I'm getting really annoying with these little things, but after some contemplation and quick calculations, it occurs to me that with only thirty five chapters I can't do everything I want. This means that I am extending this story to forty chapters, meaning more here! Isn't that great? I think it's great, but whatever. This also means that the last chapter for this now forty chapter story will be super amazing and brilliant and much better then everything else. Only one problem, I don't know what it is yet. Probably that Christmas chapter that everyone is going to do because it's Christmas and that's what people do. If you don't want a Christmas themed chapter let me know now before I start working on it. Har har har. Thank you kind readers for being there, for reading and for reviewing. I feel so loved in the mornings now. I don't feel like a loser quite so much. Thanks again._

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

_Time Lord Victorious  
_


	34. Chinese Fortunes Part 1

_Sherlock_

"It's going to tell me something happy. Something about how my luck is going to change today." John smiles before handing me a fortune cookie. I crack it in half and pull out the little strip of paper. Flattening it out on the table I read aloud "Your luck will change today when a friend hands you an envelope." I smile smugly before John rips the paper from my grip before reading it himself.

"No way." I smile wider,

"Yes way." He hands me my paper fortune,

"That is amazing."

"Glad you think so." The Chinese waiter comes to our little table with our food in little take out boxes, "Thanks." I say before taking my personal box and signing the receipt. "Come on John. We can eat on the way." I take out a set of chopsticks and hailing a cab.

"Where are we going?"

"Crime scene." John slides in next to me. I open my take out box, steam rising from the noodles and vegetables. He looks at me oddly, "What?" Please tell me, I want to eat this.

"You never eat. Especially when there's a murder." I sigh, shoving my chopsticks into my untouched meal,

"Look. I haven't eaten for several days because of another case. Not one little bite, now I've come to find that when I feel like I want to murder myself because of the pain of my stomach I should probably eat something." John is quite for a moment and I decide that I can eat now. I pick up my chopsticks and begin to eat. Really, you'd think for a doctor he'd have some sense of knowing that I haven't eaten for several days and that I should probably eat something. He sighs. "What?"

"Nothing. Never mind." I clamber out of the cab, food held high, don't want to spill any of it. Lestrade gives me a funny look before leading me to the body. Everyone is quite while I survey the body. Young woman, about twenty five. Killed by a blow to the head. Killer, five eight, foot print stride suggests that he's a man, middle aged. She lives in London, works at a concession stand, the grease and slight smell of popcorn suggests as much. Movie theatre then. I hand John my meal before bending down to check her pockets, ticket stubs. Of course, cinema. Last movie, Tron:Legacy, viewed at two in the morning. Puts here here around three considering when shifts end. I stand up to examine her fingers, well manicured, pampered child, rich parents, not a hard worker. Her boyfriend is poorer, and she doesn't want him to know about her money, thus the job at the theatre. Blond hair, bleached, shoes, expensive and stylish. She was planning on going somewhere after her shift ended, somewhere nice. She never got to change her clothing though. I root through her purse, mobile phone. I check the messages, dull human things. She was going to a fancy restaurant with her father. Took a cab, keeping in touch with her parents, letting them know where she is. Oh this case is so domestic it stinks. Robbery gone wrong, obviously. I stand up,

"You don't need me." Everyone is looking at me, odd. It's kind of unsettling.

"What?" Lestrade asks as I stride past him, taking my food from John,

"You heard me. You don't need me for this case. It's so amazingly domestic. Figured it out in less then a minute."

"I'll take anything you've got." I whirl on him,

"You really don't need me. Come on John." I turn away before Lestrade can get another word out. I'm really not in the mood today. Domestic cases make me sick, so easy, so human, so mundane. I need something... More.

"Are you okay Sherlock?"

"What? Me? Yeah, I'm fine."

"No you aren't." I'm fine little one, fine fine fine fine fine.

"Yeah I am." I hail another cab to take us home, "221B Baker Stre- Hello Mycroft." That's not a cabby, that's my brother.

"Get in." John is confused, I can see it on his face,

"After you." John slides into the taxi and I hand him my food before following.

"What could possibly be so important that you have to stop me in the middle of a case to talk to me." I ask as I pull the door shut. John looks at me as if to say, "Quit lying. You know you're not happy." Mycroft looks back at me before handing back a manila envelope,

"Open it." I don't listen. Why should I? He only comes to see me when he's got problems, like I only go to talk to him when forced.

"Why?" He sighs before starting the cab,

"It's important, unnatural and I think you'll like it." I sigh, typical,

"There is nothing you could ever do for me that would interest me in the slightest." John takes the packet from me, sliding the top open,

"Mycroft?"

"What John?"

"What the Hell is this?" I prick my ears up, something interesting?

"Something I want Sherlock to take a look at when he gets the chance. Looks like your luck is changing little brother." As if. It pricks my memory though, change of luck... when a friend hands you an envelope. Mycroft certainly isn't my friend though. Odd. "John, would you be so kind as to hand my ignorant brother that envelope." John hands it to me with a look,

"I think you'll find that you're going to enjoy this."


	35. Chinese Fortunes Part 2

_Sherlock_

I tip the manila envelope toward my hand, waiting for the object to slide out so I can examine it. A little dart lands in my hand.

"What the Hell is this Mycroft? No wait. Don't tell me." I pick it up and sniff, sour. Poison then, some sort of poison. Ancient, not from London. This is poison that is natural, earth produced. The dart itself is something interesting. It's really little, small enough to go through a drinking small. Made of wood. There's a hollowed out cavity on the end that isn't sharpened, to catch air and push it out no doubt. Looks hand made, need small fingers for that then. Craftsmanship is that of a tribal community, narrows it down considerably. Mycroft stops the cab,

"You tell me Sherlock. What is it?"

"An assassins dart. Obvious."

"Well done. Where from?"

"Some where in South America, Caribbean Islands, somewhere near there. I need to get to the lab. Take us to Bart's since you're already driving." He sighs before starting the car again, "Where did you get this?"

"It was pulled from the body of a priest. No one has any clue how it got there." I raise an eyebrow, "Well obviously I know how it got there. I just need your help proving it. I'll come get you in an hour and a half." I step out of the cab,

"Come on John, we don't have long." I burst through the doors, it's Friday, Molly should be working. Just as well, she's the only one that actually likes me, or tolerates me for that matter. "Molly?" She turns around, nearly dropping her scalpel,

"Sherlock! Didn't know you were going to be working here tonight." I smile,

"Well it appears that I will be. Is the lab being used?" She shakes her head,

"Go on up."

"Thanks Molly." I start for the door again, but turn back, she had changed her makeup. "Changed your makeup." She smiled before nodding, "I like it. It works." She smiles wider, blushing a little bit before continuing her work. Women. I roll my eyes and head for the lab, not caring if John is following or not. Technically I don't really need him. Well. I take that back. Yes I do. "John." He leaves Molly in the mortuary and follows me to the lab. I throw my coat over one of the chairs before taking my usual stool in front of one of the microscopes. I get a petri dish, this should be interesting. So many possibilities of what this dart is, what type of poison, where the dart could be made, so many things. I slide it under the microscope and take a look. Damn. Too easy. Just by looking at it I can tell. South America, probably Bolivia. The poison is taken from a dart frog, a blue one. The person that got the poison is skilled, but not skilled enough to not get some skin off the frog's back onto the dart. Made out of a rubber tree, the dart is effective, and totally lethal. I sigh out loud. "Take a look John. What do you see?" He gives me a look,

"Really? You want me to take a look." I nod,

"A second opinion is-"

"Helpful to you. Yeah I know." I get off the chair for him to take a look,

"What do you see?" He shifts to get a better look,

"Looks like it's made out of wood, probably something tropical by the looks of it. There's a bit of blue is it? Skin? On the side here suggesting some sort of animal." He pauses. Oh come on John. That isn't all. It's so blatantly obvious. Spit it out. Come on. He looks up at me, "And that's it." My heart sinks. I really have got to teach him something about the science of deduction. Really. This is getting out of hand. Well, he did alright, for a normal person. "How did I do?" I rub my eyes,

"Well John. Really well. I think you're getting better at this." Lie to him to make him feel better, then, crush his hopes and dreams, "But you missed the big thing." His face falls, bugger. I've hurt his feelings. "That bit of blue skin can only mean an amphibian. Frogs." His face lights up,

"Right! Poisonous dart frogs. I've read about those. The live in South America right? Meaning I was right about almost everything." I sigh, course he was.

"Okay John. Whatever you want."

"Do you have any idea what Mycroft needs from this dart? Or from you for that matter?" I shake my head while I pull out my phone,

"Not really my problem until Mycroft comes to get us."

_Finished._

_We find ourselves without transport._

_I blame you._

_SH_

The reply comes quicker then I thought it would,

_That was quick._

_It might take a bit._

_We have our hands full here._

_Any news?_

_MH_

I sigh, typical brother of mine,

_Of course there's news._

_SH_

_Care to share?_

_MH_

_No._

_SH_

John gently shakes my shoulder and I look up from my phone,

"What?"

"Molly asked you a question." What? Molly? When did she...?

"Sorry. What was your question?" Molly blushes again,

"It's nothing, just wanting to know if you were going to stay." Oh. Makes sense. Maybe she fancies me... Odd.

"No. On a case. Sorry Molly. Busy day."

_This case is important._

_Sent one of my people._

_He's outside right now._

_MH_

_Finally._

_SH_

"Come on John, we have some things to talk to my brother about. Night Molly."


	36. Chinese Fortunes Part 3

_Sherlock_

Mycroft leans back in his chair, taking in everything I had told him. Stupid.

"What does it mean?" John asks, this is why I keep him around, he asks the questions, I do my thing, it's a thing. Mycroft sighs,

"It means this case is bigger then I originally thought."

"Damn." I murmur. I don't want to take his case for him. This is precisely why I didn't want this in the first place. He's taking over my life he is. Trying to manipulate me into doing everything he wants. John looks up,

"What?" Mycroft fills him in before I can get a word in,

"It means that you have to take this case. It requires leg work and I find that I am unable to leave the office as often as I would like. It means that you are now on this case." I look up,

"No." John looks at me now, as if to ask me what the Hell I'm saying. "I said no John, you heard me." Now Mycroft looks upset,

"Sherlock, this case is important. A man has died, there is a missing treasure and a woman in distress, do you have any idea what kind of a day I've had?" Try to make me feel guilty, that's right. Just try. I shake my head,

"You haven't told me anything about this case whatsoever that would make me even want to _consider_ working it for you." No doubt, John's already interested, he wants to save the lady in distress, save the woman, get in her good graces, viola, instant girlfriend. How boring. Mycroft pulls out a drawer and starts to rummage in it, looking for a file no doubt, one that would make me interested. He pulls it out and slides it in front of me,

"Take a look." I sigh before flicking it open, why do I put up with this when there are far more interesting things going on. Not that anything comes to mind right now, but there could be. I scan the page, a young woman by the name of Mary came in and said that she was upset her house had been broken into, nothing was taken but a note was placed on her desk with the words 'The sign of four' written on it. Another man, who wishes to remain anonymous came forward saying that his grandfather told him about a treasure that he had hid away. Apparently half of it belongs to Mary because their father's worked together in getting it. The treasure has been missing for years. The priest who was found with a dart in his neck was the brother of the mysterious man had supposedly found the treasure. The unknown man and Mary were going to pick up the treasure when they discovered the body. Along with the body was another note reading, 'The sign of four'. That's the whole case. That's it. I flick through to see if there are any other things that I need to see, things that could make this case a bit more interesting. Oh here we go. Apparently there was no way into the room besides the window. And that is four floors up, oh. And a sky light. I roll my eyes.

"Do you really need me? Really Mycroft? This is low. Even for you."

"Sherlock, I need you on this one. I've already set up a meeting with Mary."

"That won't be necessary. I just need to see the crime scene. Ten minutes. Get us to the church and then I'll decide if I'll help."

"Thank you Sherlock."

"Never mention this." He nods, "I'm serious Mycroft, I'm sick of doing your dirty work." John smiles at me, as if secretly thanking me for taking the case. "This doesn't go in your blog. Ever." He shakes his head,

"Course not. Whatever you say Sherlock." He turns to Mycroft, "Get us on the case." He smiles, I hate my brother sometimes,

"Of course. Right away. There's a car waiting outside to take you to the church." He smiles, that's a dismissing remark. He wants us to leave right now. I stand up,

"Come on John, I know when I'm not wanted." He snickers, what is wrong with him?

"Do you though?" Confusion, what on Earth is he going on about?

"Obviously." The car ride to the church is boring, pointless and silent, each of us thinking our own thoughts, my mind is racing for a way to explain everything. I can't be sure until I see everything though. Until I observe. Almost as soon as the car stops, I throw myself out of the car and race up the steps to the room in question. Taking in everything. The door was locked from the inside, the window had been unlocked, a rope on the chair suggests that there were two people in on this, the second is the man who killed the priest, he came in through the skylight, attached a rope to the rafters, killing the priest with a dart before doing so. The skylight is still open suggesting this happened fairly recently. The dead man's body had been moved, but the note was still on the table. 'The Sign of Four.' How quaint. My eyes do one last sweep, foot prints suggest that the first man had a prosthetic leg. That leaves me with one spot. One place. The only place they could go together. Have to check first. I move the chair under the skylight and clamber up onto the roof, small, barefoot footprints. A child? No. That isn't right. Small man then.

"Sherlock!" I hear my name from the room, ignore it, look at what I've found. A packet. It's got more darts in it. The killer must have dropped it when he fled from the scene. "Sherlock!" I hear it again. Might as well. I poke my head through the skylight to see John staring up at me, a young lady clutching at his arm,

"What? I'm busy."

"Sherlock get down, you're going to fall." Look at him. How cute. He's acting all maternal.

"Yes Mummy." I mock and make a show of going back down, only to pull myself onto the roof again. I hear him shout out in anger before dashing down the stairs and outside.

"Sherlock. If you die, I'm going to laugh."

"No you won't. The killer ran along the roof like so," I teeter a bit, give him a scare, it's so worth it, "And jumped off onto this balcony here, like a real acrobat," I follow the trail of our murderer and land on the balcony a couple feet off the ground. It groans under me. Shit. That can't mean anything good. "Um... John. We might have a problem here... It appears that the killer was much lighter then me. It looks like this is going to f-" The rest of my sentence is cut off by a shout from my own mouth as the whole thing comes tumbling down.

"SHERLOCK!" I land hard on my feet and immediately sit down. That doesn't feel good. My feet and legs are tingling. That doesn't feel good at all. How come the world is spinning so? I sit there a moment, looking at John's face as he looks down at me and tuts. I blink hard before holding my hands out for assistance getting up. The blond lady from before is back, and she looks at me curiously. Ignore her,

"John, we have to hurry." I race to the street to hail a cab,

"Where?"

"The Thames." John's confusion shows in his voice as he talks to the young lady,

"Shut up. They're getting away."


	37. Chinese Fortunes Part 4

_Sherlock_

The Thames, only place they could possibly go. The man with the prosthetic leg. He was a man who is used to water, a sailor then, not a pirate obviously, those died out centuries ago. No, this man worked for the American Navy more likely. He travels a lot if he's with the navy, that explains the man he met in South America. He's old, his hands shook on the rope, needed steady hands to help keep him from falling as he scaled the wall. So far, so obvious. Must have been looking for the treasure for a long while, they didn't steal it from him, he's too young for that, so... Intuitive leap, he helped Mary's father and company get the treasure. Meaning he wants his share. Well that does make sense the doesn't it? That would explain the... But what about the note, 'The Sign of Four'? There's a fourth person involved maybe? That would explain the note, but who is this fourth person though? The helper of the old man isn't, obviously. He's just been hired, that much is easy. Most likely the old man has a boat waiting to take him across the Thames. Wouldn't want to take a cab, too risky. It's slower taking a boat across the water then a cab, so most likely they booked a hotel room. If we're lucky, they'll be heading toward the airport to take the hired man home and the old man back to America.

"Don't suppose you could speed things up a bit?" I ask the driver, don't want to lose them now do we? That would be unfortunate.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm? What John?"

"What are you thinking?" I furrow my brow, why would he ask me something like this? Must be the young lady. If I don't look, I won't observe, I won't find anything, I won't say anything, and I won't get hurt for my troubles. It has happened before.

"About what John. Be more specific." I stare out the window, she's sitting across from me. Obviously offended that I won't even acknowledge her existence. Stop it. Quit thinking about her. You're going to end up regretting everything if you think about this a moment longer. Why thank you self, as if I didn't already know that. Dear God I hate people.

"About the case."

"What about the case John?" He sighs, I've irked him, mission accomplished. I smile a little bit, this should be entertaining.

"Just now. We were heading for the Thames, now we're going for the airport. Why?"

"You're trying to make a point."

"You're avoiding my question."

"You want me to impress little miss Mary here. Not going to happen." He makes a tutting noise, "What?"

"I wasn't."

"You were, even if you won't admit it."

"At least now you acknowledge her."

"Hardly."

"Holmes." I look up. No one calls me that. He must be annoyed. Two can play at this game,

"Watson." I look him in the face, don't notice her, she isn't there.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"Okay, stop. I'll leave you be."

"Thank you." I smile again, so easy. Mundane people. I keep my eyes down as I turn back to my window. Not looking, not noticing anything. Nope. Totally ignorant. John's going to ask me again. Oh Hell. It must be one of _those_ kind of days.

"Please Sherlock." I sigh again, but continue to look out the window.

"They'll be headed to the airport, wanting to get out the country, fly back to South America and then home to America where the thief lives." He's unsatisfied with my answer. Obviously.

"How do you know that?"

"The thief has a prosthetic leg, indicating American Navy, not pirate, those died out centuries ago."

"Why do you think American?" Interruptions, annoying.

"Make of the leg, American, if it was anywhere else it would be from China. Anything else?"

"How does he tie in?" I sigh before looking at him again,

"Obvious, helped obtain the treasure, wants his share."

"Well couldn't he have been the one they stole it from?"

"No. Obvious. He's too young, but old enough to have been an accomplice. From the way things are looking, there were four thieves. Mary's father, the man's father, this thief, and one other person who is probably dead. He travels quite a lot and that's how he met our killer. He's been looking for the treasure for some time, that's why they are hightailing it out of here right now. Probably assumes that-"

"Sherlock." Another interruption,

"What?"

"Why won't you even look at Mary?"

"I have my reasons, those I would rather keep to myself, if it's any consolation."

"It's not. Explain." I sigh. Fine. He wants this, fine.

"The results, you brought this on yourself." He's confused but listening. Reluctantly I turn my eye sight toward the woman in the shadows, instantly taking in her life. It's been hard on her since her father died, the bags under her eyes suggest that she's been having a hard time finding sleep. Her clothes are well worn but clean, saying that she's neat, but of a lower class. Her make up is smeared, suggesting crying recently. She's delicate, easily moved to tears. Her bag is light and almost empty, her phone is outdated, she's a nanny then. Doesn't make much, but she utilizes it to survive. Her fingernails are worn, she works, thus a nanny. A young one. She was having an affair with the husband of the house, but recently broke it off, lost her job.

"What do you see?" Mary. She wants to know what I see. This probably isn't good.

"Are you sure?" She nods,

"Yes." I sigh,

"You were a nanny. The children you cared for loved you like a mother, that's why it broke your heart when they found out about the affair. You left and now you find yourself out of a job and having no money you do your washing yourself. You can't afford a new phone, but that doesn't stop you from living well. You manage your money well, and the idea that you can have money is lovely which is why you are tagging along with John here." She looks at me a moment, and I know. I've upset her. As always. This is why I don't go out at all. John gets to witness this first hand now. She reaches across and slaps me. I feel the sting across my face. I don't say anything, John doesn't say anything. The cab is quiet for a moment.

"Correct. On everything."

"Ah."

"Except, I didn't leave. I was fired."

"Right. Course. You see John?" He's quiet. That's right. I've made my point and now you feel bad. Of course. The cab stops outside of the airport, "Thanks. Now quickly or we'll miss them."

"Do you know where they'll be?"

"Of course I do! Follow me!" I lead the two of them into the packs of people, looking for my gate. I checked in the cab, gate 304 South America, Bolivia. Just as I thought. Found it, now we're looking for a man with a prosthetic leg, it won't bend at the knee, there, and next to him, a little man, not a midget, just a smaller build. The men look up and see me running to them. Shit. I've spooked them, they're going to run for it. Lucky me Lestrade had nothing to do, I texted him in the cab. Meaning, if I've managed to convince him, he's got the doors blocked. "STOP!" I shout anyway. The thief glances over his shoulder, red hair flying in his face, he can't get a good look at me, he turns back and keeps running. Today really isn't my day is it? One of the men at the door stops our limping man, and another grabs the shorter by the back of his shirt. "Thank you gentlemen, but I'm sure that you can see, they won't be running anymore." One of them nods before yelling for Lestrade who gets out of a police car.

"Nice work Sherlock. Now tell me, why do I have these men?"

"Hold on. Busy." I take my phone out, best tell my brother,

_Found your men._

_Caught them._

_What do I do with them?  
SH_

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I think you'll find that I need to talk to them, so kindly, can I have a word?"

_Arrest them brother._

_You know that._

_MH_

_Done._

_SH_

_Really?_

_MH_

_Obviously._

_SH_

"Who's this?"

"Mary. Can I have a word?" He rolls his eyes,

"Be my guest."

"Thank you." I survey the men in front of me before taking the packet of darts out from my jacket pocket, "These, I believe, are yours." The smaller man nods, but doesn't speak a word. "Now, tell me the story." The thief looks at me a moment, cold brown eyes smoldering slightly,

"Once upon a time, when I was a lot younger, three of my mates and I found this lovely treasure. We was gonna split it evenly amongst ourselves, but two of 'em took the chest before it was done. They disappeared for years. I spent half my life looking for that bit 'o shine. Me other mate died only last year, before we had the treasure. Simple as that."

"Why the priest. Why did the priest have to die." The smaller man looks away, not talking, but his guilt plainly dances across his face,

"I had nothing to do with that. I just wanted the treasure."

"Okay, so you're British yes?"

"'Course I am."

"Then why the American Navy?" He's taken aback, a classic reaction,

"Was available wasn't it. Made a fair bit of money with it too."

"Right. Fine. I've had my fun. Lestrade."

_Have you recovered the treasure then?_

_MH_

_No._

_SH_

_What do you mean no?_

_MH_

_Haven't found it yet._

_Don't text me anymore._

_SH_

"Come on John. I think it's time we leave. Lestrade can take it from here." He looks at me,

"What about Mary?"

"What about her?" Quit being a child John, she doesn't want you. You've got Sarah anyway.

"What are we going to do about her?"

"Not my problem. Mycroft's people will be here any minute to find the stuff, best leave her here. Exchange numbers or something if it matters that much to you." I sigh before taking off down the street, time to get home. Been a long day. Too long I think. Time to leave it all. Actually, a nap doesn't sound half bad. Maybe just a- No. I've got that thing in the microwave, the toes, my experiment. Today was fun though. Luck of the Chinese I think. _Your luck will change when a friend hands you an envelope_. John certainly did that, hand me an envelope. That was exhilarating. I am now content.

_Thanks Sherlock._

_MH_

_Don't mention it._

_I mean it._

_Ever._

_SH_

_Of course._

_Of course Sherlock._

_Never happened._

_MH_

* * *

_Well my lovely readers, how was that for adventure. If any of you read the Sign of Four, you'd understand most of the plot, though some of it, most of it, is purely me. Now I have to spend tonight thinking of giving you something extraodinary tomorrow, it being Christmas and all, and I did promise. I just don't have anything in my head, no ideas or anything. Oh well. We'll wing it, just like everything else in my life. Thank you, you wonderful people. Happy Christmas, and enjoy your holidays. It's been brilliant. Why do I feel like I'm saying good bye? I'm not. At least not for another few chapters. Odd. Goodnight, sleep well. Happy Christmas._

_Much Love,_

_Time Lord Victorious  
_


	38. Something Festive Part 1

Sherlock is woken in the wee hours of the morning by peals of giddy laughter coming from his friend. What the Hell. It's early, and John feels the need to go all girl on him.

"What the Hell are you doing in here?" He asks grumpily, John says nothing but continues to laugh, "If you have nothing better to do, leave so I ca get some sleep, it's cold and dark, and I'm tired." John laughs some more,

"Do you know what day it is?"

"The day where I kick you out of the flat and into the snow covered street." Sherlock grumbles before rolling over to face the wall.

"Sherlock." He's not going to leave till Sherlock says something,

"What?"

"It's Christmas." Sherlock furrows his brow, Christmas. Oh God. Another useless holiday,

"So?"

"SO? SO? So it's Christmas! Time to celebrate almost a year of flat share, time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, time to celebrate life and happiness. Time to get drunk and stupid, time to be mates and wish everyone a happy Christmas. Time to exchange gifts and drink eggnog!"

"Time for you to get out of here." John is stumped, Sherlock should be happy. Everyone is happy on Christmas,

"Sherlock?"

"John, I don't even care that it's Christmas. I don't care that I'm supposed to be happy. You know, Christmas is the worst time of year."

"What?"

"Christmas is the time when the criminals lay low. Christmas is the time when Mycroft comes round to try and get me to a hateful Christmas dinner. Christmas isn't happy, and the sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be." John's face falls,

"I've said too much, I can tell. I've upset you."

"Yes. You bloody well upset me. You hate me when I wake you up in the middle of the night." John leans back on his feet,

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Sorry. I'll just leave you be now."

"Thank you." John gets up to leave,

"Oh, and Mycroft called. He said you were going to Christmas dinner with him tonight whether you want to or not." Sherlock sits up, fear dancing across his pale features.

"He did what?"

"He said you're going to dinner with him today. Apparently mummy's in town."

"No!" Sherlock leaps out of bed, grabbing John the the front of his shirt, "We're going out tonight. I can't... Not today."

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" Sherlock let go of John's shirt before sitting down on his bed,

"No. What time is it?"

"Round about six in the morning. Why?"

"Do you have any Christmas obligations with your family?"

"No. Why?"

"So you're not busy tonight?"

"No. Why?"

"So if I leave here tonight you'll be home all by yourself on Christmas?"

"Yes. Why?" He looks at John, happiness flooding his entire being, saved. Oh yes, now he believes in Christmas miracles,

"I could kiss you!"

"I rather hope not. That would be awkward and weird on so many levels."

"We are going out tonight. I'm not going to dinner with Mycroft. He tries to get me to go every year. This time he's bribing me with mother. I'm just not up for a social call. I haven't talked with mother in years." John takes a seat next to his friend,

"Well then don't you think it's time you start talking to her?"

"No. Last time I saw her, things were said. It'd be awkward." Sherlock's mobile rings causing them both to jump. "Oh bugger. How much do you want to bet that's Mycroft?"

"Ten pounds."

"You're on." Sherlock reaches across to his nightstand and answers his phone, "Sherlock Holmes. Hello Mycroft." He holds his phone away from his ear, "You owe me ten quid John," before talking to his brother, "What do you want? No. I'm not. John and I are busy tonight. I just can't spare the time. If I go to the dinner, he'd be home all by himself. No he can't just make plans with his family, he'd be at the flat, all alone. On Christmas. What do you mean I've never cared about holidays before? I have! I always have! What did you get me for Christmas last year? Um... I don't know, I never opened your present. Threw it in the garbage as soon as I got it in the mail. What do you mean that's not Christmas spirit, of course it is! I was sure it was booby trapped! You can't expect me to open a present when I know full well that- Of course I didn't buy you a present! I don't have anything to give, no idea what you want, and no, you're right, I don't have Christmas spirit. That doesn't mean I can't appreciate and respect the traditions and happiness of those around me. What? I don't want to talk to mummy! No. No! Don't. Oh bugger." He holds the phone away from his ear before turning to John, "This is why I hate holidays."

John smiles, laughing while he spoke, "This really is comical! You place yourself above everyone else, saying how high and mighty you are, and here you are right now doing something fairly normal in most households."

"Shut up John. You don't underst- Hi mum." John is quiet, knowing that this is hard for Sherlock, he knows when to shut up, when to be quiet, when to just be there for Sherlock. He's known him long enough for that. "No, no, everything's fine. We're all good over here. No, we have plans tonight. Sorry mum. No no. You don't need us there, you have Mycroft, you always liked him better then me anyway, even if he did disappoint you. Oh that was me? Now I'm really busy tonight. Good night mummy." He hangs up the phone. "Apparently I upset mummy." He hangs his head,

"Are you alright Sherlock? No, of course you're not." Sherlock looks up,

"Of course I'm fine. What do you want to do tonight?" John laughs,

"Oh I don't know. We could go to a pub and watch a movie or something." Sherlock chuckles,

"Dull." John sits up straighter,

"Well what do you have in mind?"

"Oh I don't know. I don't really celebrate Christmas."

"I know, but what do you do?"

"For holidays?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing usually. Blow holes in the walls. Get really drunk. Take loads of sleeping pills. Let them pass me by. Nothing really happens."

"That's it? You don't do anything special?"

"Nothing comes to mind." John says nothing and just sits on the bed, thinking. What can he do to make this Christmas brilliant? An idea. A simple one, but it might just be brilliant enough for Sherlock Holmes.

"Have you ever played Clue?"

"What?"

"It's a board game. Harry has it, we could borrow it if you want."

"What's it about?"

"You'll have to find out, I'll call Harry."

_About an hour later_

Sherlock is still in his pajamas, bent over the game, moving the little purple piece the correct number of spaces.

"This game is pointless." He cries before sitting up and looking at John pointedly.

"I have an idea of how to make this interesting."

"If it involves eggnog and a couple of die, I'm out."

"What?"

"Never mind. What's this idea of yours?" John gets up from his chair and goes into the kitchen, getting a bottle of Vodka from out of the pantry and two shot glasses. Sherlock doesn't drink, at least not usually, but John always keeps a bottle or two on hand for when he wakes in the middle of the night due to bad dreams,

"The number we roll on the die, we drink the same number of shots. You can pour your own, but it has to be that same number. If we're lucky we'll pass out before we finish the game." Sherlock furrows his brow,

"This is such a stupid idea. Is this your idea of an ideal Christmas? It's stupid." John sits down before taking the die,

"Have you got anything better?" Sherlock thinks a moment,

"No."

"Exactly." John rolls, the die bounces off the table and onto the floor, three. He moves his yellow piece and then fills his shot glass, downing it in one gulp. Shuddering he fills it again. Sherlock looks away, pointless. His phone buzzes,

"Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade? Aren't you on holiday? Happy Christmas to you too I guess. No murders, so why are you calling me? To wish me a happy holiday? I'm not sure I buy that, but okay. Thank you I guess. Get on with your day." He hangs up before throwing the die. Six. Of course. Sighing he reaches for the bottle and drags it closer to him, dreadful. Positively dreadful.


	39. Something Festive Part 2

_About two hours and several drinks after the fateful call from Lestrade_

Sherlock is drunk. There is a downside to rolling high numbers most every time you roll the dice. John is drunk too, though not nearly as drunk as Sherlock. He's more the comfortable, went to a pub kind of drunk.

"I give up on this game, I don't want to play anymore." Sherlock slurs, putting his head in his hands and looking at John,

"Is it because I'm winning?"

"No." John looks at him hard a moment, "Yes."

"Well what do you want to do?"

Sherlock thinks a moment, "We can play Scrabble."

"Scrabble? You want to play Scrabble?"

"Yes. I'm going to go get dressed first though." Sherlock stands and heads toward his room, nearly running into a wall before successfully closing his door. John packs up Clue. At least it kept him busy for an hour or two. He tromps up to his bedroom, leaving the game on his bed. There's a Santa hat on the corner which he picks up and looks at for a minute,

"Sherlock would look good in this I think." An odd comment, granted, but he is drunk. He turns from the room and heads back downstairs. Sherlock is already dressed. I say dressed... Meaning he has pants and a shirt on, but his buttons aren't buttoned properly and his jacket is thrown across the back of the chair. He's setting up a Scrabble board, he already has his seven tiles out. He looks up,

"Hello John. Get ready to have your arse whipped." He takes a seat. John looks at him before pulling the hat down over his curls,

"Happy Christmas." Sherlock makes no move to remove that hat but starts placing his tiles on the board. Q-U-I-R-E starting at the star and to the left, hitting a double letter score tile. Fifteen times two, the star being a double word score square. A thirty point move. Sherlock sits back in his chair, a smile on his face. He knew that he had done that, the knew how many points he'd get. He reaches into the bag and draws four more tiles,

"You're turn John."

"Is that even a real word?"

Sherlock's annoyed, "Obviously. Play the game so I can beat you." John looks down at his tiles, there is nothing there. He can't make a single word, it's too early in the game to say so though. First move on his part.

"Sherlock. I can't think right now, it's a wonder that you even placed that. How did you-? My brain is fuzzy." He stands up and leaves Sherlock to stare at the board. Flopping himself on the couch he starts talking to Sherlock, "Hey, we've been sharing a flat for almost a whole year now. Isn't that something. A whole year. How many cases have we solved?"

Sherlock looks up, "Too many to count I would think."

"Nah. I've blogged about everyone of them I think. Even if they were little." Sherlock stands up,

"Scoot over." John stretches out and scoots into the cushions more, making room for Sherlock to lie down. His head at John's feet, he stares up at the ceiling, "How much Hell do you think we've put Mrs. Hudson through?" John laughs,

"Oh. Too much. Enough for a life time."

Sherlock laughs too, "She loves it though."

"Yeah, I suppose she does." The two men are quite.

"John?"

"What Sherlock?"

"I have a confession to make."

"What is it?"

"I didn't get you a present." John chuckles,

"I didn't get you one either."

"I wouldn't take it."

"I know." There is a knock on the door, "Come in." It's Mrs. Hudson.

"Happy Christmas boys." John raises his head to look at her,

"Speak of the devil! We were just talking about you Mrs. Hudson! Happy Christmas to you too!"

"Mrs. Hudson, in light of the festivities of this holiday, I think it's only fair that you give me my skull back. I know you took it. Again." Mrs. Hudson frowns, though Sherlock can't see it,

"I've brought presents!" John sits up all the way, accidentally kicking Sherlock in the face.

"OI!"

"Sorry Sherlock. I got you something Mrs. Hudson, I'll just pop upstairs and get it."

Mrs. Hudson smiles and laughs, "Oh that's sweet dear, you didn't have to."

"Oh it was my pleasure." Sherlock just lies on the couch, staring at the ceiling, in a stupor of thought. John comes down the stairs again with a wrapped package, placing it on the table, "There you are. I didn't know what to get you, so I got some chocolates just to say thanks. I think you've got to be the best landlady I've ever had." He gives her a hug before she reaches into her bag to pull out a gift for John,

"Here you are love, I'm not going to tell you what it is, you're going to have to open it yourself when I'm not around. And I have something for Sherlock too." Sherlock sits up and turns to face the two of them,

"What? You shouldn't have done that Mrs. Hudson. You know I loath the gifts. I can always guess what they are before I open them."

John scoffs, "No you can't." Mrs. Hudson takes out an oval shaped package and puts it in Sherlock's hands,

"Yes I can. This is Yorik. Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He stands and embraces the little woman. She laughs before shaking her head and going down the stairs again. John sits down again, looking at Sherlock,

"The day isn't even half over."

"Right you are."

"What are we going to do for the rest of the day?"

"Nothing. Unless you think of something." John nods before shaking his package slightly. Sherlock smiles, "You'll never be able to guess what it is." John frowns,

"Like you know what it is just from that."

"Oh trust me."

"Poor choice of words Sherlock. What is it?"

"It'll ruin the surprise."

"Sherlock."

"Okay fine. It's Call of Duty Modern Warfare Two. Right up your street if you ask me."

"No one did. It's an X-Box game right?"

"Right."

"We don't have an X-Box or controllers."

"Oh. Did I mention?"

"What Sherlock?" He reaches behind the sofa and brings out a large unwrapped box. X-Box 360,

"Happy Christmas."

"SHERLOCK!"

"What?"

"You said you didn't get me anything." Sherlock looks confused,

"I didn't."

John gestures to the new gaming system, "Then what do you call that?"

"Something for _us_."

"Right. We still don't have controllers do we?" Sherlock thinks about this for a moment,

"No. I wasn't thinking." John takes the box from Sherlock before sitting down again.

"I know what we're going to do today." Sherlock looks up,

"What?"

"Get your coat, we're going to go get controllers." Sherlock looks at John like he was crazy,

"Why don't you just go?"

"Because you're the one who bought the damn thing. You're going to help me for once."

"You know I don't like people."

"Sherlock you have to get out at some point." Sherlock kneads his eyes,

"I don't want to go. I'm slightly drunk and I don't feel good."

"Sherlock it's Christmas. Humor me." Sherlock sighs,

"What the Hell. It can't hurt anything." John silently cheers before getting up to get his coat.

"Come on Sherlock. Who knows. Maybe you'll have fun." Sherlock smiles,

"This is the best Christmas ever. Thank you John."

* * *

Help me here guys. I need to know if I should make one last chapter for this, or if I should dive straight in with the fortieth chapter which will be of epic proportions. The way I ended this, I could either continue or stop. It's up to you guys. I have some more I could add, but it can also stay. FYI I'm going to start on the last amazing chapter for this story, going to call it something along the lines of A Fond Farewell or something like that. It's going to be amazing. You might even cry. I think that's what I'm going to do. Right, one more Something Festive part or not? Up to you.

Until Gallifrey is free,

Time Lord Victorious


	40. Something Festive Part 3

Sherlock tried not to look at anyone, but it was difficult.

"John, just get the controllers and we can go." He shrinks back into his coat a little bit, standing closer to John as he examines the controllers.

"Hold on Sherlock. I'll just pay for these, then we can head back to the flat." Sherlock sighs,

"Well could you hurry up?" John sighs,

"Alright. Alright. Hold this," He shoves a controller into his hands before getting one for himself. The two head for the checkout line and pay for their equipment and Sherlock hails a cab, and was fidgety the whole way home. Mrs. Hudson was in their flat when they got home, she had set up the X-Box and greeted the two men.

"I'm all thumbs when it comes to technology, maybe you can work this out." She smiles before leaving the two men to their game.

_Several hours later_

"OH MY GOD! I TOTALLY KILLED YOU! This game is unfair!" Sherlock sits back in his chair, eyes wide as he stairs at the TV screen. John shakes his controller as his guy comes around a corner, guns blazing,

"DIE DIE!" He starts laughing as spots of blood litter the floor and Sherlock's character falls to the ground, dead. Again.

"SHIT! You stupid Russian! I will kill you!" Sherlock's half of the screen responds and his guy takes off down a crumbling hallway, "Where are you? I will find you. Are you hiding in the bathtubs? Again?" He turns down another hallway and lets the rounds spray, throwing tile and dust around in the game, "GOT YOU! AT LAST! Eat my bullets you old army doctor! The consulting detective takes the lead!" He starts laughing before the two resume the game, not a word passes between them, just the occasional sound of gunfire and the death of their characters. There is a knock on the door startling the two,

"Come in." John calls before shooting rapidly at Sherlock,

"OH BLOODY HELL! NOT AGAIN!" The door opens and Sherlock nearly throws the controller across the room, "What?" He asks the person standing behind them, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll get the rent to you in a matter of days."

"It's not Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock whirls around in his chair,

"Mother."

"Hello Sherlock." John turns to see Sherlock's mum. She has the same colour hair as him, that dark, almost black, brown, the curls too. Her eyes are green though. She's pretty. Not what John expected. He holds his hand out,

"John Watson. Pleasure." She smiles, same smile too.

"Rosanna. The pleasure is mine. You've been keeping my son out of trouble, I've heard about you." Sherlock looks up,

"Mum, if you're here, does that mean Mycroft is here too?" She laughs,

"No. I know you too have your silly rivalry. You didn't come to dinner, I decided to see what was so important that you couldn't see your mother for Christmas." Sherlock looks away,

"I am busy you know. Christmas and everything."

"The hat looks good."

"What?" Rosanna gestures to the hat on Sherlock's head,

"It looks nice." Sherlock smiles,

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

"That's it? Aren't you going to say anything about where I've been?" Sherlock shakes his head,

"No. Don't want to embarrass you, trying to keep down appearances, trying to hide where you've been, what you've been up to."

"Yeah. Thank you I guess."

"Welcome." There is silence. An awkward one and suddenly, John feels out of place,

"I can go if you need me too..." Sherlock sits up,

"No, no no. It's fine John, really. We'd like you to stay, isn't that right mother? Need to get to know John. He is my best friend after all." She smiles before taking a seat on the sofa, "I'll just get some eggnog. I know you bought some John, don't bother trying to deny it." John rolls his eyes and shifts in his chair to talk to Rosanna.

"So you're Sherlock's mum. I've heard a bit about you."

"Really? I'd have thought he'd steer as far away as possible from that subject."

"Did you not leave things well with him then?"

"Not really no."

"Ah." Sherlock sets a few glasses on the table and sits down in the other chair studying his mother,

"I missed dinner."

"Yes you did."

"I'm not going to apologize."

"I know."

"Mum?"

"What Sherlock."

"Thanks for Christmas."


	41. It's Not Goodbye

_John_

The call came in the middle of the night, waking me from a fitful sleep.

"Hello?" It's Lestrade, oh God. Sherlock better not have gotten himself into trouble. Again. Wait. Why does his voice sound like that? It's all constricted, like he's trying not to cry. Or be emotional at all. Wait. What's he saying? What's happened to Sherlock?

"Sorry what? That can't be right! You're pulling something on me. I don't believe you. Where?" He says Sherlock drowned. But that's impossible, he's downstairs in his room, just like he should be. Sherlock can't drown. He's not allowed to die. That's just... absurd and wrong, not the way of the world. I hang up the phone before Lestrade can say anything else and race downstairs, I have to prove myself right, Sherlock is down here, down here waiting for me. I push open his bedroom door, and sink to the ground, empty. He's... I can't bring myself to think it, it's so perverse, sickening. Gone. Sherlock's gone, not here, where? I grab my phone again, willing myself not to do anything rash. Speed dial one, Sherlock's number. No one answers for sometime, Lestrade. He answers. He says he has Sherlock's body right there in the morgue, he wants to know if I want to go see it. Apparently he's been shot too. I shake my head before flinging my phone across the room. They're lying, they all are. It can't be true. Lestrade told me that I'm worse then family members. He's going to call Mycroft. What's he going to say? I better... I can't move, the shock of someone so important in my life being taken away is just... Dry sobs force themselves out of my chest and slowly I sink to the floor, exhausted. My eyes close, and I can't see anymore.

Someone is in my flat. I smile slightly before speaking, I don't even have to look to know who it is, "Sherlock." Lestrade was wrong, obviously, here was Sherlock. Only he and Mrs. Hudson and myself have keys to the flat.

"Not Sherlock." My eyes fly open. Wrong. Mycroft. Last nights horror trip settles on my shoulders. Numb. I can't feel. I can't think. Numb. My friend, my family, gone. I curl into a ball. It's all a lie, it's fake, he can't be just... Gone like that. It's not right, not decent. Any minute now I'm going to wake up and Sherlock and I will have a laugh. This is absurd. Mycroft touches my shoulders, trying to coax me out. Only now do I feel like a little child,

"What am I going to do?" I whisper quietly, the only thing I can think now, the only particle of practical thought that still is in my head. "What am I going to say to Mrs. Hudson?" I shrink away from Mycroft's hands, he's trying to help me up, I don't want to get up. Sherlock is all that matters now. And he's gone. I've seen my friends, people I know get gunned down right in front of me, right there, but never have I felt so lost. Why is this different? Maybe it's because Sherlock changed me. We were friends, we shared a flat. We were like family. Oh God. Past tense. He's really gone isn't he? I don't know what I'm going to do with my life now. It's going to get so boring. Sherlock can't leave. He just can't be gone. It's not right. Not natural. Oh God. Mycroft puts a blanket around my shoulders. It's Sherlock's blanket. I fling it off, I don't want it. It's Sherlock's. He'll need it when he comes back.

"But he's not coming back John. He's not." Mycroft sounds hurt, sad, like he doesn't want to believe it but he has to be mature about it. He's got to tell mummy, he's got to still be the British government. Sherlock has to come back, he has to. He's not. He's gone, he's died on me. John, stop it, if you think like that, it makes it true. But it is true, oh God it is true. There's nothing I can do about it. I should have been there. I could have saved him. I know I could have. And now he's gone. He left without me. Oh God. It's all my fault. It's my fault. I shouldn't have let him go out by himself. He knew that if he had just woken me up I would have gone with him. It's Moriarty I guarantee it. And now Sherlock's gone, he's not coming back. I can't live here anymore, it's too empty, to memorable, I can't deal with that everyday. Poor Yorik. He's not going to be... Useful anymore. Mrs. Hudson is going to cry. I'm not. I'm not going to cry. Oh bugger. Yes I am. I am going to cry. I can feel my eyes stinging, my cheeks are wet. I'm crying. Sherlock wouldn't want that, he'd just laugh. He can't now though. Moriarty did this. He said he wasn't going to kill Sherlock. At least not yet, bugger. Moriarty isn't going to live to see another day. Not as soon as I can pick myself up. I can't move still. I just can't get up, I can't face the doorway, I can't face the emptiness, the cold, the loneliness. It's too much. Mycroft picks me up. Why? He's not very strong, he just doesn't want me on the floor then? He sets me down on the bed. Oh God. It's Sherlock's bed. I can't stay here, I just can't. It's wrong, not right. Not proper. I'm going to kill him. Moriarty. Sherlock's gone and there's nothing I can do about it.

"John, Sherlock told me that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted you to have this." He slips and envelope with my name on it into my hand.

"Sherlock never talked to you Mycroft. Why would he give me this?" I turn away from him and face the wall. Sherlock. Gone. Dead. Numb. I can't feel anything. It's to surreal, it's impossible. Not right. Wrong. All wrong. He's gone, he can't be gone. Mrs. Hudson, I can see her now, she's standing outside of the door, wondering what's going on. I can't tell her. It'd break her heart. I can't do that. She's too nice. Too motherly. I love her like a mother. Best landlady. Sherlock's gone. How selfish of him. Did he not think for one second to not drown because people care? I doubt it. People care and he threw it away. Bugger him. He's dead now. Gone. And I can't do anything. It's all my fault. My fault. Mycroft is telling Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft should have helped. Play the blame game John, it makes everything better. Obviously. I wipe my tears and get off his bed, the one he didn't sleep in last night. I can tell. Mrs. Hudson needs me right now. I go to her, hug her, she needs comfort. I can't give any. I glare at Mycroft. He should have helped. He had us under surveillance. He knew all of our comings and goings. Sherlock's not coming back. Never again. It's terrifying to think about living here, by myself. I don't have a proper job, I don't have means to supply for myself, and I don't have a friend. Not one. Sherlock's gone. He was my friend. A handful, granted, but my friend. He didn't mind that I don't say much, he didn't mind that I'm different. He was my friend and now... He's gone. What do you do when someone you love like a brother suddenly disappears from your life? You can do nothing but mourn. And hurt. And cry. And wish you were dead. And it hurts. It always hurts. It never goes away. I find myself on the floor again, my head in my hands. Oh God, it hurts. It hurts. Can I just make it go away? Can I just turn it off? He's gone, he's just not coming back.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" I whisper, my voice thick with tears. That jerk. Bastard. The two leave me on the floor and go to mourn in their own way. Mine is just more... audible. I knead my eyes, make the tears stop, make everything stop. Can't everything just stop. Can I wake up now? I pinch my shoulder hard, have to make sure, have to make sure that I'm not going to wake up. I'm not going to wake up. Oh bugger. It hurts so much. Why won't it stop hurting. Not ever. My years of military service, the deaths I've seen, everything flashes before my eyes, all my time with Sherlock. The hours of sleep I lost listening to Sherlock's beautiful violin rants, the playing. The laughter we shared. There's a knock on the door. I have to pull myself together. I wipe my eyes and stand, my leg is stiff. My limp came back. I stop my shaking hands before reaching for my cane, next to the sofa where it had stayed for several months. Get the door. Don't think about any of that again. Put it in the box, seal it up. I twist the door open. No. That's impossible. Sherlock. Standing there, a quirky grin on his face, arms open for a hug. I just got over. No.

"Hello John." Look at him. All... Normal looking. He thinks he can just waltz back here and think that I'll take him back. After the Hell he just sent me spiraling through. Again. I shake my head before closing the door, only to have it stopped by Sherlock's foot.

"You can't be here. It's my imagination. Happened in Afghanistan too, after watching people I knew and loved die in front of me. I'm going to look up, and you'll be gone, because Moriarty killed you. And I'm going to need therapy again. I'm going to go to prison for killing him, for killing you."

"John." His hand is on my shoulder, he wants me to look at him, proof that he's real or something. I look up,

"Sherlock. What are you doing here? You're dead. Lestrade saw your body." My phone rings and Sherlock smiles,

"That will be Lestrade calling to tell you that my body is missing from the morgue." I look at him again, swinging my fist at his face, he takes it and hangs his head, as if knowing I was going to do that,

"That's what you get. I-I'm going to... Kill you."

"Seem to have lost your fire Dr. Watson."

"And you haven't ceased to amaze me yet. Mrs. Hudson will want to see you. And your brother was here."

"Didn't cry now did you?" I clear my throat,

"Of course not."

"No. No. Not at all."

"You know you can take me with you."

"I know."

"You didn't even say goodbye."

"It never needed to be said. I knew I'd be back."

_Hey everyone. This has been brilliant. Tomorrow I'll have a new story out, it'll be called 'This Should Be Intriguing' Look for it if you want. Thank you for making this journey absolutely brilliant. I have had a blast and I think you guys are the best reviewers ever. You guys are brilliant. No seriously. Thank you so much for making this one of the best stories I've ever had the honour to compile, even if most of them are shorts. I'd like to ask a favour. I want a review of your opinion on the whole thing. Personally, I think it's been brilliant. Best story or stories that I've ever written. It's been brilliant. Best journey for fandom ever. You guys are brilliant. I love you all. If you want, look for my other story. It should be up sometime tomorrow, not for sure when. I don't have anything for it, oh well. Something will come. Like with this._

_Thank you so much, you have been wonderful, I couldn't ask for better people,or better reviewers,_

_Time Lord Victorious _


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